Photo Finish
by Deb3
Summary: 18th in the Fearful Symmetry series. A groom is murdered at Gulfstream Park, but things aren't what they appear to be at first.
1. Default Chapter

Rating: PG-13

Series: This is the 18th in the Fearful Symmetry Series. Fearful Symmetry, Can't Fight This Feeling, Gold Medals, Surprises, Honeymoon, Blackout, the Hopes and Fears, Anniversary, Framed, Sight for Sore Eyes, Trials and Tribbulations, Premonition, Do No Harm, the CSI Who Loved Me, Complications, Yet to Be, More Deadly, and Photo Finish. All are archived on Lonely Road and on under Deb3.

Disclaimer: Any character you see on CSIM on TV does not belong to me. I am only borrowing those and am making no money from it. All other supporting human characters here, including Rosalind and Breeze, do belong to me. Silver Lining and Valentine are my own creations. Any other horse mentioned by name is real, and of those, only Chrissy belongs to me. All financial details mentioned anywhere are absolutely accurate, although I find some of them as unbelievable as you will. Gulfstream Park is real, but the crime is entirely fictitious and not based in any way on anything that has ever happened there. I appreciate their cooperation with this story and apologize for planting a crime on their turf. The Breeders' Cup World Thoroughbred Championships is an actual event. In 2004, it will be held October 30th at Lone Star Park in Texas. It is a true world championship and is televised in dozens of countries, so you have a pretty good chance of finding it, if you feel so inclined.

Speed Disclaimer: The subplot of this story concerning Speed and Breeze was created well before Lost Son aired or before any of the rumors began to fly this summer. I even have witnesses to that fact. The week of the first death rumors, I bounced the subplot summary off a few people because I already was pretty sure how Speed would die, and I was afraid this subplot would hit too close to home for the mourning Speedsters. The vote was unanimous to keep it in, perhaps with an advance disclaimer. Therefore, I promise Speed fans that he is not harmed in any way during this story. I maintain that the subplot is in character for him. Also, I have no plans to kill Speed in the Fearful Symmetry series. My muse does have a mind of her own, but Speed is safe for four more stories, at least, and I really am not planning to cut him out in the future. I do absolutely promise to never kill Horatio, Calleigh, or Rosalind. My muse isn't capable of it. File that one along with the unconditional happy ending guarantee.

Thanks: To Mike Tanner from Gulfstream Park for answering my questions about the areas behind the scenes and giving me a working picture of Gulfstream during Breeders' Cup week. Note that Gulfstream is currently undergoing a massive renovation, to be completed in 2006. This story is based on the old Gulfstream facility. Also, thanks to Wendy, professional equine photographer and friend, for the opportunity to watch her work officially and unofficially on many occasions over the years, as well as for the gifts of her magnificent photos of Ebony and Fortitude.

Dedication: To the many people who encouraged me to write another horse case after the Hopes and Fears. This one is totally different, but it had to be. For me, none of my CSIM stories will ever match the Hopes and Fears, not even Complications. I had a lot of fun with this story, though. Hope you all enjoy galloping through Photo Finish.

(H/C)

"Whereas, up to the present, there is only one known way of getting born, there are endless ways of getting killed."

Dorothy Sayers

(H/C)

The backstretch was never totally silent, but at this hour, when the morning was still a shadowed promise in the east, it came close. What few sounds came were hushed, as if fearing to wake the world. The patient, steady tread of the night watchmen throughout the barns. The soft shuffling of hooves in the straw. A muffled nicker here and there. The feeble squeak of a mouse as a silent cat pounced. The horses had been fed breakfast by the night men at 3:30, allowing several hours before their early morning workouts. Now, 45 minutes later, the soothing, grinding munch had stilled. Here and there, a feed tub rattled hopefully as a horse investigated it for one last missed oat. Some of the horses had dozed back off, but others were starting to look over the webbing that blocked the stall doors. Soon, the people would start to arrive.

Partway down one barn row, a dapple gray head emerged. The aisles were always lit, even at night, and the bulbs struck an answering gleam from the brass nameplate on the leather halter. Silver Lining. The horse snaked his neck toward the open door at the end of the barn, and his nostrils flared, sampling the day's potential. Even though the other end of the aisle was closer, he looked the long way. Out there in the darkness, the track awaited. His hooves rustled softly in anticipation, and a quiver of eagerness swept over him. Like any athlete carefully honed to a peak, he knew the battle would be soon. His ears pointed toward the distant oval where a mile of dirt swept to smooth perfection waited for hoofprints.

Suddenly, there came a soft thud from the tack room at the very end of the barn, and the horse's neck twisted around, the ears snapping to startled attention. The night watchman was not in sight at that moment, but up and down the aisle, heads came out of the stalls and ears focused. A wandering barn cat froze into alertness, then trotted toward the tack room with that swinging feline gait, free to satisfy her curiosity. There was nothing more. No person emerged. No further sound broke the silence. The barn was deathly still. After a minute, the cat came back out of the room with nonchalant satisfaction, then sat down in the middle of the aisle to wash her face. The horses, accepting her verdict, lost their focused attention and, like Silver Lining, turned toward the other door in innocent anticipation. Out there in the darkness, the track awaited.

(H/C)

Two hours later, the backstretch was coming to life. The first set of horses to work were heading for the track. People were everywhere, caught up in the smoothly organized bustle of morning duties, but the yellow signs posted regularly made the priorities clear. Horses had the right of way over any other traffic, mechanical or human.

Every car entering the track had to be authorized and checked in. Horatio showed his badge at the security gate, received directions through the maze of barns in return, then drove the Hummer through the gap in the high chain link fence, entering Gulfstream Park. He glanced at the fence with professional appraisal. "Be hard to climb that at night."

Alexx, in the passenger's seat, nodded. "I sure wouldn't want to try it. My kids would try, but they wouldn't make it. You don't know what you'll have in store with Rosalind in a few years, Horatio. They make me wish I could bottle the energy."

Horatio smiled at the mention of Rosalind. "I'm looking forward to it." He braked the Hummer to let a horse cross the path ahead. "Amazing how much activity there is this early. Sorry for dragging you out at this hour, Alexx."

Alexx shrugged. "It was Jonathan's turn to fix breakfast, anyway. I just grabbed a Pop Tart and slipped out to wait for you. Don't tell Janie and Bryan, though."

"Do they have exclusive rights to Pop Tarts?"

"They think so." The Hummer meandered slowly through the tangle of barns, passing an occasional parking area filled with an eclectic mix of Cadillacs, Rolls Royces, and beat-up pickup trucks. "Quite a combination," Alexx said.

"More millionaires in America own a Ford F150 than any other vehicle," Horatio informed her.

"I'll have to tell Jonathan that. Puts him in good company." The Hummer rounded another corner and braked, swinging in behind two police cars. "Here we are."

They climbed out of the vehicle, and Adele, standing in the open door at the end of the barn, called to them. "Morning, H, Alexx."

"For us, anyway," Horatio replied. "What have we got?"

"Pete Carter, groom. 53 years old. He was found dead in the tack room at the end here when the other help started to arrive."

"Did he always get here first?"

"He was sleeping here, apparently." Adele indicated another man hovering in the background, wanting to help but not sure how much help he would be. "This is Mr. Wallace from the track. He says a lot of the barn help stays on the grounds at night."

Wallace stepped forward, and Horatio shook his hand, at the same time nodding to Alexx. She slipped around them into the tack room. "The help travels with the horses, and the horses travel around the country from track to track during racing season. So each track has dormitories. We've got three, and most of the grooms sleep there, but some of them would rather sleep in the tack rooms on cots. We have a tack room at each end of each barn."

"I saw your perimeter security on the way in. Is that totally locked down at night?"

"Absolutely. Nobody unauthorized could possibly get through. We do have a man at the main gate at night, just in case."

"What about the people already here? How many people would be moving around at night?"

"Not many at all. We've got a night watchman in each barn. The grooms or the vets might have a legitimate reason to be up – a sick horse or such – but it's pretty quiet. The watchmen would notice anyone around, even somebody with a good reason to be there."

"How many people are around here? How many watchmen?"

"There are about 400 horses on the grounds right now. Call it at least 250 people, with the grooms, exercise riders. The trainers and the jockeys usually stay in hotels, but a few of them would be living here, too. About the watchmen, we have 33 barns, but not all of them have horses in them at the moment. Most of the horses from the north who winter here don't ship down until mid December. There would be a watchman at each occupied barn, doubling up on the empty ones. We also have the quarantine barn, but it's completely fenced separately. That one is full at the moment, of course."

"Why of course, Mr. Wallace?"

"The Breeders Cup is being held here this Saturday." Wallace automatically fell into his media presentation, a living commercial. "Eight races worth 14 million dollars. Competitors from all around the world. We have 11 different countries competing this year, from England and Ireland to Japan and Dubai. All of the foreign horses have to be kept separate from the Americans. USDA rules."

"Are their barn help kept separate, too?"

"No. They'd be in the dormitories with the rest of them, unless they slept in the barn."

"With that many watchmen, things wouldn't be overextended. I'm impressed with your security, Mr. Wallace."

"Some of these horses are worth millions. There's one in this barn that I know is insured for 20 million, and if he wins Saturday, it'll go up. There are about 110 horses going in the Breeders' Cup races, and they're probably easily worth over 250 million all put together. Our watchmen are very aware of their responsibilities, Mr. Caine. We don't just use rent-a-cops, either. Anyone sneaking around at night wouldn't have an easy time getting into a barn, whether he worked here or not."

Adele spoke up, anticipating the next question. "The watchman at this barn never saw anything odd, never heard anything. He walks around, though, inside and out, checks the whole barn. There were a few minutes here and there when he wouldn't be right in the aisle. He seemed wide awake and competent."

"The security guards wouldn't be sleeping." Wallace was definite. "Not even normally, and certainly not this week."

Horatio nodded, getting the picture. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Wallace."

"I hope we can get this cleared up as quickly as possible," the man replied.

"Murder happens anywhere, I'm afraid. It may have nothing to do with the track except the location." Horatio shook the man's hand again. "If I have any further questions, I'll call you."

Horatio slipped past Adele and entered the tack room at the end of the barn. "What have we got, Alexx?"

The ME was kneeling beside the body. "He was stabbed in the abdomen with some kind of weapon, but I can't figure out what it is. It's still in. I don't want to move him until Speed and Eric get here to take pictures."

"They shouldn't be far behind us." Horatio walked around to the other side of the body. It always amazed him how pitifully smaller people looked in death. This man had been small to begin with. At the moment, curled on his side with his hands clenched and the long metal bar across his abdomen, he looked like a broken mannequin. Horatio frowned slightly, studying the weapon. It was about 12 inches long, a handle with a long metal shaft beyond it, then obviously curving back into a hook. The hook was completely buried in the flesh with dark blood staining the clothes around it and pooling slightly on the floor. "What is that? I've never seen anything like it." He looked around the room, which had an organized clutter of saddles, bridles, flannel bandages, buckets, tack trunks, and the cot neatly set up near where Pete Carter had died. Horatio abruptly came to attention, staring at the far wall.

"Horatio?" Alexx asked.

"I think I've found our weapon. Another one of them, anyway." He walked over and plucked the implement off a rack hung with many other things. Horatio couldn't even guess what half of them were. He held the hook in his gloved hand and turned around to display it to Alexx. It looked like nothing else as much as Captain Hook's hook. The fingers wrapped around a bar set in a U-shaped handle, and beyond that, the metal shaft ran for almost a foot before it curved back on itself in a vicious-looking, wide hook at least three inches in diameter, ending in a carefully-honed point. Horatio tested the point. Not knife sharp, but certainly sharp enough to penetrate with some force behind it. He swept the thing lightly through an arc, testing the excellent balance. It was obviously made to be swung at a target and bite deeply into it. He walked back to the body, holding it alongside its buried twin, and he and Alexx compared them.

"I still don't know what it is, but that's definitely our weapon." Alexx looked at it and shivered slightly. "That looks absolutely wicked. Like some medieval torture instrument."

"I wish Calleigh were here," Horatio said, a wistful note displacing the professionalism momentarily. "She's the weapons expert. I'll bet she'd know."

Alexx smiled at him. "You miss starting out these early morning cases with her, don't you? If you're thinking of giving Rosalind back for a refund, I'll take her."

"Not a chance," Horatio replied. "Cal should be here soon. So should Speed and Eric. In fact, they should already be here." He glanced at his watch. "Calleigh will get revenge on me tonight. She's meeting an old college friend for dinner and a movie, and I'll be the one stuck babysitting." He didn't sound too put down by the prospect, though.

Alexx returned her attention to the body. "I haven't moved him, but there's one odd thing that strikes me right away, Horatio. This isn't as much blood as I'd expect."

Horatio tilted his head slightly, considering the small pool. "No, it isn't, is it? Maybe the hook blocked the bleeding somewhat."

"Surely he'd try to pull it out, though. Wrong move, medically, but I might do it myself with that thing in me." She looked at the long hook Horatio held again. "His hands are clenched. He was fighting, but it's like he wasn't fighting the hook. I think we might have two things here. I'll be watching for some second injury along with this one at post."

"Nice work, Alexx." Horatio stepped back and swung the hook again. Alexx shuddered. "It's really designed for this. You know, Alexx, I think we could say from the direction that our killer is right-handed. Also, that he came up behind the vic."

Speed and Eric arrived together at that point. "Nice of you to join us, gentlemen," Horatio said dryly.

Eric grinned, refusing to be reprimanded. "Sorry, H. Traffic is awful, and when you get through the gate, it's worse. You can't drive over 5 miles an hour around here. Too many horses."

Horatio held out the hook. "Have either of you ever seen anything like this?"

Speed shook his head, but Eric hesitated. "Yes. Let's see, um, Amy. Girl I dated a couple of years ago. She had a horse, and she had a couple of those in her barn. I don't know what she used them for, but it's something to do with horses."

"That ought to narrow it down," Speed pointed out, looking around the tack room.

"You two start processing this room," Horatio directed. "Get pictures of the body first, so Alexx can take it. Alexx, do you have TOD?"

"Around 4:15," she replied.

"And the body was found at 4:45. Thank you, Alexx. I'll be talking to the night watchman. Keep me posted." Horatio left, still holding the hook.

Outside, Adele was talking to a tall, thin, worried-looking man. "H, this is Randy Duncan, the trainer of the horses in this barn."

"How long will this take to get cleared up?" Duncan demanded.

"As long as the investigation requires," Horatio replied, letting just an edge of steel show under his voice. He held out the hook. "Can you tell me what this is?"

"It's a hay hook." Duncan shivered himself, like Alexx had. "I don't think I'll ever be able to look at one the same way again."

"You saw the body?" Duncan nodded, and Horatio sighed, imagining hoards of people tracking through the crime scene. "How many people went in there before the police arrived?"

"Ramon found the body. One of my grooms. He ran back out screaming, and the night watchman came over to check. He went in there, and I arrived right after that and went in myself. The other grooms were starting to arrive, and I think two, no three of them started in. Sam, the security man, chased everybody out and stood guard until the police got here."

Horatio mentally saluted Sam. "Did anybody touch anything?"

"The guard was checking for a pulse when I walked in. I didn't see anybody else touch anything, but they might have. I might have touched something myself. I just don't remember." The man really was upset, and Horatio softened his tone slightly.

"What is a hay hook legitimately used for?"

"You swing it at a bale of hay, and the hook sticks in it and gives you a handle. It's a lot easier on the hands to move bales that way than grabbing the baling twine." He pointed to the end of the aisle, where a man was carrying a bale with a hay hook in each end. Both hooks were securely imbedded in the bale, leaving two convenient handles.

"Okay. I want to talk to Ramon and also to the security guard."

Adele spoke up. "The guard went over to the track kitchen for a cup of coffee. He'd been up all night, of course. I told him to come back. I couldn't get much at all out of Ramon. He's scared senseless."

"Let's try again, shall we?" Horatio turned back to the trainer. "Where is Ramon?"

The man pointed. "Grooming his horse. Fifth stall. Mr. Caine, whatever you do, please don't upset that horse. Or Ramon either. I'm trying to stick with routine. That horse has to win Saturday."

Horatio's voice was icy. "There was a person murdered here this morning, Mr. Duncan. I suggest you worry about that more than your routine."

Duncan's eyes fell, and he switched back to apparently genuine grief and shock. "I liked Pete. Really. Everybody liked him, and we'll miss him. But there's nothing I can do for him now."

"Someone obviously didn't like him." Horatio was suddenly tired of talking to this man, who could seem callous one second and grieving the next. It was enough to make anyone dizzy. He was used to summing up people quickly, and this one refused to be summed up. "We'll probably have more questions for you later."

"Is it all right if I go over to the track? I need to watch some workouts. My first set hasn't even been out yet."

"Just don't go in that tack room." Horatio turned away. He returned the hay hook to the tack room for Speed and Eric to check, then headed for the fifth stall. Inside, a Hispanic man was grooming a dapple gray horse, keeping up a sort of broken humming, apparently trying to reassure both of them. "Ramon?" Horatio asked, and the groom jumped, startling the horse. He reached for the halter, speaking softly to the animal, and the gray relaxed.

Horatio noticed that he had used Spanish to the horse and switched languages. "Ramon, I'm Lieutenant Caine with CSI. I need to ask you a few questions."

Ramon came to the front of the stall but stayed inside, with the webbing across the door like a barrier between them. The horse stood next to him, curious, his ears sizing up Horatio. "When you found the body, Ramon, what time was it?" Horatio started with an easy question, trying to establish rapport.

"4:45," came the soft answer.

"Did you see anyone else around the tack room before you went in?"

Ramon turned his head suddenly, looking directly at the horse. After a moment, he looked down at the straw, not Horatio. "No," he replied, even more softly.

"Do you know anyone who had a grudge against Pete?"

"No." He was looking at Horatio again.

"Did everyone know Pete was sleeping in that tack room?"

"Yes."

Horatio slid forward a half step, easily, soothingly. His voice dropped, like he was talking to a child. "Ramon, who are you afraid of?"

The quick, compulsive glance at the horse came before the groom wrenched his eyes back to Horatio. "Nobody. I need to finish my work."

This was obviously a dead end, for the moment anyway. Horatio would try again later. "Thank you, Ramon." He nodded toward the horse. "That's a beautiful horse you have there." He knew this animal didn't belong to the groom, of course, but there was no harm in leaving him on a positive note. It might help for later.

Ramon brightened suddenly, his wide grin totally transforming the dark face. "Thank you." He patted the gray's neck, and the horse turned his head around and bumped him, allowing Horatio to see the nameplate on the halter. Silver Lining. The horse nuzzled the groom, and Ramon reached up to twist an ear, talking to him too softly for the rest of the world to hear. In the horse's eyes, at least, he did belong to this man.

"I'll talk to you a little later, okay?" Ramon nodded, and Horatio walked back down toward the tack room. Adele trailed him.

"He knows more than he's telling us."

"Definitely," Horatio agreed. "I don't think he's guilty, though. He's scared. Did you notice that every time he told us a direct lie, he looked at the horse first?"

"Yes." Adele frowned slightly. "I don't know why, though."

"He didn't want the horse to hear him lie. That's the one thing that was making him feel guilty."

Adele stared at him. "You might be right there. Why should it matter if he lied in front of the horse?"

"That I don't understand." Calleigh arrived at that moment, sweeping into the barn like a ray of sunshine, and Horatio gave her a dazzling smile. "Good morning."

"Morning, Handsome. Again."

"The first time didn't count. Sorry to leave you to deal with everything."

"I doubt you were wasting your time. Besides, your turn is coming tonight." She glanced up and down the barn aisle. "What have we got?"

"A new weapon for you." Calleigh's eyes sparkled in interest. "Pete Carter, former groom, was murdered with a hay hook."

"With a what?"

Horatio stepped into the tack room and picked up the extra hay hook, offering it to Calleigh. She snapped gloves on and took it, studying it professionally, swinging it. "This is a new one. It looks lethal enough, though."

"How's it going?" Horatio asked the team.

"I'm just about ready to move the body," Alexx said. "I haven't found any second wound so far, but it'll be a lot easier to examine him back at the lab."

Speed held up a second camera. "This guy was a photographer, H. It was in his backpack next to the cot. This is a better camera than I've got. Lots of film rolls, too."

"Be sure to get the film. He may have taken a picture someone didn't want him to take."

Speed clicked the door of the camera open. "Already thought of that. I think the last roll of film in this camera was stolen. There's film in here, but it isn't wound. Just a new cartridge stuck in, not wound and ready to shoot. No way this guy would leave his camera like that."

"Nice work." Horatio was impressed. "Eric, keep processing here. Speed, go over to the dormitories – there are three of them – and look in all the trash cans. See if you can find a roll of film. I'll bet he exposed it to ruin the film, then just threw it away. If you find one, notice which room it was in."

"Sure thing, H." Speed set down Pete's camera on the cot and started out the room, hesitating as he passed Calleigh. "Calleigh, tonight is the night you're going out with that college friend, right?"

"Right. Why?"

"No reason. Have fun." He headed on out the door, leaving everyone else in the room staring after him.

"What on earth was that for?" Calleigh wondered.

Horatio shook his head. "When you women figure it out, be sure to tell me."

Adele stuck her head through the tack room door. "H, the security guard is back."

Horatio went back out into the aisle, Calleigh easily falling into step beside him. Sam was a tall, burly man, looking a bit tired at the moment, but he had been up all night. His eyes were still alert, though. Horatio liked him instantly.

"Tell me about last night," he invited.

"I came on at 9:00 p.m. It was a quiet night. Carlos came over at midnight to check on one of his horses who had colicked a few nights ago, but the mare was fine. He went back to the dorm after that. Other than him, I didn't see anybody until they started to arrive this morning. Except for Pete, of course. He went out at about 1:00 to take a picture of the moon."

Horatio stiffened slightly. "Pete was taking pictures at 1:00 this morning?"

"Right. He got the full moon over the grandstand, he said. He was really happy about that shot when he came back. He was a professional, you know. Had one book of horse photos published already last year, and he was working on another. That's why he was grooming. Spending a year taking pictures behind the scenes, life at the track. That sort of thing. He was a good groom, though, really liked the horses. He used to be a jockey."

Obviously, Pete's camera had been loaded correctly at 1:00 this morning. "Is that why he slept in the tack room?" Horatio asked. "So he could slip out at night and take pictures?"

"Right. He wouldn't be disturbing anybody but himself that way. Really considerate, he was. Everybody liked him."

"He died about 4:15, we think. Was there anything at all odd going on then?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. Quiet as a mouse. I walked around the outside of the barn about then, but I was only out for a minute. Not enough time to kill someone and get away. I swear, if anybody got in this barn last night and back out without me noticing it, his name was Houdini."

Horatio and Calleigh glanced at each other, sharing the assessment. They believed him. Unfortunately. A murderer with Houdini-like abilities would be harder to catch. Calleigh spoke up, addressing the one other possibility. "Sam, would you hold your arms out, please, and let us look at your uniform?"

He wasn't offended, nor was he nervous. As the only person who admitted being there at 4:15, he knew he had to be ruled out. "Sure." He held out his arms and rotated slowly. There was no blood anywhere on the beige uniform, not even a drop. "You can have them, if you want to. I've got a change of clothes in the car."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Horatio replied. "Tell us about finding the body."

"The grooms were starting to arrive. I was checking in with Ben, the assistant trainer, giving him a report from the night, when Ramon came tearing out of the tack room like the devil was after him. I went in to check, tried to get a pulse, chased everyone out, and called the police."

"And we appreciate it," Horatio assured him. "How many people did you see enter that room?"

"Ramon was there, but I didn't see him enter. I went in. Ben stopped in the doorway. Randy got here about then, and he came on in. Two other grooms, Misael and Bob. I didn't see anybody touch anything. They were all just staring."

"You said you didn't see Ramon enter. So you had your back turned to that end of the barn while you were talking with Ben?"

"Right. We were standing in the far door. We both turned around when Ramon started screaming. I wasn't as much on guard right then, you understand. Everyone was arriving, and my shift was over. I knew there were other people around in the barn then."

"Is it possible that someone else entered the tack room just before Ramon did?"

"It's possible," Sam said. "If there was, though, he didn't react or report it. He'd have to be pretty cold-blooded."

"Murderers frequently are." Sam had finished his coffee and looked forlornly at the empty cup, and Horatio took pity on him. "Thank you for your cooperation, Sam. Give Detective Sevilla your phone number, but you may leave now. Go get some sleep."

Sam gave him a tired smile. "Let me know if I can help you any more." He gave the number to Adele, who had been taking notes.

Horatio stepped back to the open barn door, looking at the backstretch scene. So many people, so many activities going on as usual. It seemed somehow unfair that the world didn't pause to acknowledge a murder. His thoughts returned to Duncan, the trainer who within a minute expressed regret over Pete's death and concern for his horse, not the victim, not his family.

Calleigh stood beside him in easy silence, thinking herself. Finally, she spoke. "The time table on this is awfully tight."

Horatio nodded. "He died at 4:15. Found at 4:45, and at that point, Sam checked for a pulse. I can't see him missing it or not calling for an ambulance if he thought there was any chance at all. We can safely say that Pete wasn't killed right before Ramon found him, although someone might have slipped in to remove the film then. It's not certain that the film thief was the murderer. If someone else found the body and knew he had a compromising picture, he could have snatched the film right there."

Calleigh considered it. "Back to the murderer, though, at 4:15, Sam wasn't out of sight of that tack room for more than a minute or two. To sneak in, kill Pete, and sneak back out in just two minutes, without making a sound, without leaving a blood trail when there should have been some spatter from the wound – this guy is good, Horatio."

Horatio gave her his predatory working smile. "We're better," he stated.


	2. Photo Finish 2

See part 1 for disclaimers, notes, rating, etc.

(H/C)

"Things are seldom what they seem."

Gilbert and Sullivan, H.M.S. Pinafore

(H/C)

Horatio and Calleigh were almost to the dormitories when they saw Speed coming out of one. "Got it, H," he called, waving an evidence envelope. "The film hadn't just been exposed, though. It's partly melted. I think he put it almost directly on a light bulb. Doubt we'll get anything salvaged from that."

"Which room?"

"Ramon Sanchez." The name meant nothing yet to Calleigh, but Horatio was surprised. Then, thinking about it, he wasn't surprised. Ramon was terrified, and if he wasn't the killer, the killer probably would like to frame him, get him out of the way, to discredit whatever it was Ramon knew.

"Speed, did you find a film box in that room? There was a new roll in Pete's camera. It has to have come from a box somewhere."

Speed shook his head. "Just the film."

"What about the light bulb?" Calleigh suggested.

"What about it?" Speed said.

Horatio picked up the thought instantly from Calleigh and carried it further. "If he held the film that closely to a light bulb, the bulb might have had traces of it burned in. He would have been working quickly, whether he took the film at 4:15 or 4:45. At 4:15, he would have needed to get finished before the other grooms woke up. At 4:45, he would have had to hurry up and get rid of it at the dorm before he was missed back at the barn."

Speed nodded, getting the picture. "I'll go back and check Ramon's light bulb."

"And every other room. All the trash cans, too, for the box. The film might be planted, but the light bulb would be in the killer's own room, I think."

"Got it." Speed handed over the evidence envelope with the film and made a U-turn, heading back into the dorm.

Horatio turned back toward the barns, and Calleigh fell into step beside him, their strides automatically adjusting to each other. "So who's Ramon Sanchez?"

"A groom who knows a lot more than he's telling us. He found the body, and he's scared stiff. The thing that really makes him feel guilty, though, is lying in front of his horse."

Calleigh considered it. "He doesn't mind lying to the police, but he feels badly about lying to his horse?"

"You got it."

"Weird."

"This whole case is strange. You didn't meet the trainer yet, either. He's an emotional lava lamp. Grieving to callous and back in five seconds."

Calleigh shook her head. They passed a small building with a sign on a door that read Racetrack Chaplain, and Calleigh stopped to make sure she had read it right. "Racetrack chaplain?"

"Look at this one." Horatio had stopped in front of the next door, which had a schedule of classes posted on it. "Classes. English as a second language has the most meetings, but there's everything from math on."

"ESL would probably be popular around here," Calleigh agreed, looking around. At least 60 of the backstretch workers seemed to be something other than Caucasian, though they weren't all Hispanic. She could pick out at least four different languages from the morning rumble, one of which was French. French? A trainer walked by next to a horse, heading for the track. The horse was wearing a purple saddle cloth under his saddle, with the Breeders' Cup logo, a stylized horse head, printed on it along with the horse's name. After the name in parentheses was Fr, and the trainer and the exercise rider were holding a conversation in French. An official with eyes like radar walked with them, making sure all other horses stayed several feet away.

"One of the international horses," Horatio said.

"French horses come to Miami to race?"

"The track spokesman said that they're having an international event here Saturday. 14 million dollars in prize money."

Calleigh was impressed. "14 million could be worth killing for."

"So could a picture," Horatio replied. He glanced back at the poster of educational classes. "This is like a world of its own. They've got a chaplain, self-improvement courses, dormitories, and a kitchen. They've obviously got their own criminals, too."

"Any society does," Calleigh agreed. They resumed walking back to the barn, Horatio filling her in on as much as they knew along the way. They went directly to the fifth stall. Silver Lining wasn't there, but Ramon was, spreading fresh straw with a pitchfork. Calleigh automatically caught herself weighing the pitchfork's potential as a weapon. She'd never realized before today just how many options horse people had in that department.

"Ramon?" Horatio said softly, and the groom jumped. He stayed in the back of the 12 x 12 stall, but his eyes were directly on Horatio this time. The horse wasn't there to hear if he had to lie.

Horatio slipped easily into Spanish. "Ramon, do you have a camera?"

He was too surprised by that question to avoid it. "Of course not."

"Why shouldn't you have one?"

"No money, senor." He waved the pitchfork. "I'm just a groom."

"What does a groom make on the track?"

"About $15,000 a year."

Calleigh's eyes widened. "You're on the job at 4:45 a.m. for only $15,000 a year?"

"When do you get off?" Horatio asked.

"Around 9:00 or so." Horatio and Calleigh stared at each other. Working a 16-hour day, hard physical work, for $15,000 a year. "I usually take a siesta, though," Ramon admitted, coming a step toward them across the stall. "After the morning, before the afternoon races. Pretty quiet then."

"Why do you work that hard for so little?"

"The horses," Ramon said, like it was obvious. "I love the horses. There is more money sometimes. If they win, I get 2 percent of their money, too."

Horatio quickly ran 2 percent of 14 million on the calculator of his mind, and his eyes opened a bit wider. Of course, Wallace had said there were eight races. The 14 million had to be divided between them. Still, the financial possibilities here had just gone way up. "What do you do with the money, Ramon, if you don't spend it on yourself?"

Ramon instantly locked up, and their growing rapport shattered. "I save it." His eyes never veered away. The horse wasn't here.

"Do you have family back in . . ." Horatio eyed him, weighing the possibilities. "Mexico, is it? Do you have family you send the money home to? Maybe so they can come here themselves eventually?"

Ramon's face was a fiercely polite mask. "I save it," he repeated.

Horatio left that road block and went back to the question of the film. "So you have no reason to have film in your room?"

"No. I have no film." He lost the fierce edge there. Since that was true, he wasn't as desperate to have it believed.

"Are you sure you saw nobody leave the tack room this morning right before you went in?"

"Nobody." His answers were clipped again. His head suddenly came up. "Excuse me, senor. My horse is coming." He slipped out of the stall past them and headed to the end of the barn, getting there just a second before Silver Lining came around the corner, ridden by his exercise rider, accompanied by the trainer and his assistant.

Calleigh shook her head. "He definitely saw somebody."

"There's something about his family, too. I'm sure he sends money home. Maybe someone here has threatened to harm them unless he cooperates." Horatio watched Ramon take the horse's reins and exchange the bridle for the halter. "He recognized the horse's hoofbeats. Out of all the horses walking around here."

Calleigh nodded. "Pretty impressive. Can you imagine working like this for that little, Horatio?"

"No. You'd have to love it. The money isn't enough." Ramon led the unsaddled horse over to a clear area with a drain just outside the barn, and the assistant trainer started sponging the sweat away. Randy, the trainer, stood back and watched, utterly focused. Too focused. "The trainer's another mystery. He does seem grieved about Pete when he thinks about it, but he isn't really thinking about it. He's absolutely desperate for that horse to win Saturday. If the groom gets 2, what do you suppose the trainer gets?"

"You think he's got gambling debts or something?"

"I'll vote for or something. We just don't know what yet." Silver Lining finished getting his bath, and the trainer stepped forward to run his hands thoroughly over each leg. With his hands on the horse, he was relaxed, confident, soothing. The desperation of a moment before had vanished.

"I see what you mean about the emotional lava lamp," Calleigh said. Randy stepped back, satisfied, and nodded to the assistant, who draped a blanket over the horse. Ramon started walking him, cooling him off.

"Let's see how Eric's doing." Horatio headed back for the tack room, and Eric flashed a wide grin as his boss entered.

"H, I found Pete's picture log." He held out a notebook, and Horatio quickly flipped through it. Each shot was recorded, along with notations of which lenses and settings he had used. The final shot, recorded at 1:10 that morning, was labeled "Moon over Miami!!!!" It had been shot 20 on a 24-exposure roll of film.

"Confirms Sam's comments. I think we can assume Pete liked that shot," Calleigh said, reading around his arm. He held the notebook out a bit so they both could study it easily, reading backwards from the moon shot. "Nothing jumps out at me on the rest of that roll."

"It wouldn't be labeled 'drug deal in progress' or such," Horatio pointed out. "It had to be an accident. Something in the background that didn't mean anything at the time but could have later. These were for a book, remember. We'll look at all of the remaining film, too. What he took a picture of once, he might have caught earlier, too." He closed the notebook. "Nice work, Eric. Anything else?"

"Not so far. Slow going. Trouble is, there are too many surfaces here. All this junk."

Horatio grinned, looking around the tack room. "Organized junk, Eric. We just don't know what it's used for."

"If I ever date Amy again, I'll make sure she doesn't have a hay hook with her." Eric looked at the spare hook again.

"Okay, here's what we do. Speed is still at the dorms. You finish up here, and Calleigh and I will take what you've got so far and head back to CSI. Keep me posted."

"You got it, H." Eric picked up another bottle in a row of horse medicines and supplements near Pete's cot. He dusted it for fingerprints, raising at least 10 different sets. He sighed again as he pulled out the lifters. This was going to be a long day.

(H/C)

Calleigh finished logging in the last piece of evidence and looked up to see Horatio lost in thought, studying the hay hook. This was the second hook, the first one still being down in the morgue being removed by Alexx. Calleigh took a second to watch him. His thoughts, like his movements, were gracefully efficient. He felt the scrutiny and looked up to return her smile across the layout table. "What is it, Handsome?"

He held out the hook. "Look at this thing."

"I have. Hard to believe there's a mundane use for it. I'll bet we could sell a hundred of them in five minutes in certain neighborhoods around here."

"I don't doubt it. Look at the angle, though. It isn't a perfect U at the hook. It's angled slightly down, not parallel to the bar."

"So?" Wherever he was heading, she couldn't see it yet.

"Think of the one in the body. It went straight in, way over on the left side of the abdomen." His eyes met hers with his "we're making progress" excitement burning in them. "It went **straight** in, Cal."

She saw it so suddenly that she jumped. "On a swing around a person from behind, it wouldn't go straight in. The swing would land more toward the center of the abdomen, and it would pull back toward the killer slightly." She came around the table to take the hook from him, stepping back to give herself room to swing it. "I didn't see any tearing back toward the killer at the entry point."

"We'll have to ask Alexx, but I didn't either. The more I think about it, the more it seems wrong. The killer would have to bring his arm so far around to land that far left that Pete would have had some warning. Whether it was a direct fatal blow or they struggled first, the entry wound shouldn't be that precise." He turned his back to her suddenly. "Attack me, Cal."

"What?"

"You're the killer, coming up behind me. Let's try to get a picture of this."

Calleigh looked at that long, vicious hook and shivered. She wasn't sure if she could attack Horatio with it, even in a re-enactment. He was right, though; there was something odd about that entry point. Forcing herself to see it clinically, she came up behind him and swung the hook around, carefully not putting enough force into it to penetrate the skin. The point was sharp but not sharp enough to cut if she was careful. It hit his abdomen, and she froze as they both looked at the point. Slightly left of center. "You're right, Horatio. It wouldn't have landed all the way across."

"I saw your arm come around, too. There's no way somebody caught him off guard like that." He took the hook from her. "Turn around, Cal. I'm going to try it."

"No need to. We just proved our point."

He picked up the hand that had held the hook and gently kissed it. "You hated doing that. Even though we had to, it was hard. I don't want to leave you there alone."

Touched beyond words, she turned her back to him. Even now, his thoughtfulness still surpassed her expectations. Her expectations were hardly set low, either. Horatio came up behind her, swinging the hook gently around, and it landed left center again. He wrapped his other arm around her and hugged her. She leaned back into him for a minute, then straightened up as he did, and Horatio gave her a quick but hardly professional kiss. "Let's go see Alexx."

(H/C)

"The hook didn't kill him," Alexx stated definitely. "It would have – ruptured the spleen and the splenic artery – but he was already dying. That's why there wasn't as much blood. His heart had practically stopped before the hook went in."

"Stopped from what?"

"Anaphylactic shock."

"What?" Calleigh stared at the body. "What was it a reaction to?"

"That I can't tell you. Tox doesn't show anything on the basic tests, but we don't test for everything. We'd have to have something specific to look for. The possibilities are endless; people can be severely allergic to anything."

"But?" Horatio heard the mystery in her voice.

"I can't figure out how he got whatever he reacted to. He had a completely empty stomach. No stings, no bites, no injection marks. Nothing. Anaphylaxis is fast, but whatever it was had to get into the body. I can't find the entry point. Surely he wouldn't have anything sitting around his cot he was that allergic to, anyway."

Horatio frowned slightly, thinking it through. "You think he fell on the hook when he collapsed?"

"Yes. Like you said, it went straight in. No tearing or stretching of the entry wound at all. He was holding the hook, and he just happened to fall on it at the right angle. Maybe it wasn't murder, Horatio. At this point, I'd have to call the hook an accident, but I still can't figure out what caused the shock in the first place. I'm taking swabs from the nose, see if he inhaled something"

"Murder or not, we still have a crime," Horatio stated. "The missing film. There's something going on here. Anything else of interest, Alexx?"

The ME reached for her notes. "You won't believe this. He's even got you beat, Horatio. I took full body x-rays when I reached the fifth main scar. He's had fractures of eight ribs, the left femur, the right tibia twice, the left radius three times, left collarbone, right collarbone twice, and a broken neck."

"All old injuries?"

"Years old."

"Sam said he used to be a jockey," Calleigh pointed out.

"Anybody with any sense would have quit before he did," Alexx stated firmly.

"Anybody with any sense isn't working 16-hour days around horses for $15,000 a year," Horatio replied. "Broken neck, did you say?"

"Yes. C5 and C6. That was the worst of them. He'd had anterior cervical fusion to stabilize it. He's lucky he wasn't paralyzed."

"He still would have been a bit stiff there, wouldn't he?"

"Absolutely."

"Maybe he was using the hay hook for a back scratcher. He was holding it, and he wasn't near any bales of hay. He probably couldn't reach around behind his back very well."

"I'm sure he couldn't," Alexx said. "This still doesn't explain the anaphylaxis, though."

"We'll see. Don't label it a pure accident just yet, Alexx. Give me a day or two."

"You've got it," she replied. "When you find out what he reacted to and how he got it, be sure to let me know."

"I will. Thank you, Alexx." Horatio let Calleigh precede him through the door to the morgue. As they walked down the hall together, he said, "Cal, you check out the hay hook that was in him. Prints, trace, anything."

"What are you going to do, Handsome?"

"I'll start on the rest of the evidence, but first, I'm going to consult an expert."

"An expert in what?"

"Horses."

(H/C)

Horatio dialed the number on his cell phone, flipping through the pages of Pete's film log with the other hand. The phone was answered on the seventh ring. "Hello?"

"Lisa? Horatio Caine."

"Hi, Horatio. How's it going?"

"Can't complain. Listen, Lisa, do you know anything about horse racing?"

"Purely as a fan, but yes. I follow it quite a bit."

"I've got a case involving horses over at Gulfstream Park, and I'd like a little inside information."

"Why don't you ask the people there?"

"Because they're lying to me."

He heard the smile in her voice. "Lying isn't a crime, Horatio."

"No, but murder is."

"Murder? Who was killed?"

"One of the grooms. Could I come over to the stable and ask you some questions, Lisa?"

"Sure, I'll help as much as I can. I'm not an insider on racing, though. Emily's out of town for two days, so I'm running everything myself, and I'm pretty tied up with lessons today. What about tonight? Would 7:00 be too late? Everybody else will be gone by then."

"That would be fine, but I'll have my daughter with me. I have to pick her up from daycare at 5:30, and Calleigh has other plans for tonight."

Lisa hesitated, trying not to sound impolite. "How old is she?"

"Eight months. She won't bother you, though. She's pretty quiet, and she doesn't like strangers."

"We'll be even, then. I don't like kids. Sure, Horatio, bring her along. I might be riding when you get here if the lessons run a bit late.

"No problem. Thank you, Lisa. See you then." Horatio snapped the cell phone shut and started on the pile of evidence. He was still absolutely convinced that this case was a murder. He only had to discover how, and the answer to who would follow.

(H/C)

Speed crept into Ballistics, looking uncharacteristically surreptitious. Trying to, at least. He relaxed after looking around. Calleigh was indeed gone, off for her date with her old friend from college. Tonight was his golden opportunity to be here unseen. He wasn't about to let Calleigh catch him at this. She would only read him another lecture on the proper care and handling of guns.

He pulled out his revolver and looked at it. Cold, impersonal, a piece of metal. Somehow, he never felt that way about the microscopes or the lab equipment. They were on his side, joining the fight, aiding the discovery. The gun was never part of him, staying neutral at best, turning against him at worst. He wished he didn't have to carry one at all, but rules were rules, and the CSIs did get into tight spots at times. He knew that as well as anybody. He touched the spot on his chest where the shot had hit him on dispo day. Since then, he somehow hated the gun even more. It represented his failure. He accepted now that he couldn't have saved the officer who died, but he still felt guilty, like a fraud, carrying a weapon that he never had felt comfortable using.

Once a year, at least, he had to use it. Annual qualifications, where all officers are required to meet minimum standards, were coming up. Once a year, he took the gun apart and cleaned it, hating the job even more because that, too, reminded him of a fellow officer's death. Once a year, he found stolen moments alone on the firing range to brush up his never-too-impressive shooting skills, cramming like a college student trying to make up for a semester's nonchalance with a few all-nighters. Once a year, he met that minimum. He didn't meet it by much, but it was enough to count. He would leave perfection to others. Speed was content simply not to fail.

He aimed and fired, emptying the cartridges into the paper human target, flinching slightly as he did. Why couldn't they make them look like something else? He ran the target up and inspected it. It looked more like it had suffered random hailstorm damage than directed shooting. With a sigh, he replaced it with a fresh one and began again.

Just as he was starting the third round, a voice at his elbow nearly sent him through the ceiling. With ear protection on, he hadn't heard her approach. "Hey, Tim. I thought you were working late tonight."

He turned to face Breeze. "I am. What does it look like I'm doing?"

She glanced from him to the target and back. "I'm not sure."

"Thanks a lot. What are you doing here? I told you I'd be late tonight."

"I thought I'd bring a pizza and watch you work." She nodded toward the box on the nearby table.

Food. He hadn't been hungry until he smelled it. Maybe he was simply missing so badly because he was hypoglycemic. That made sense. He investigated the box and found his favorite flavor, pepperoni with extra cheese. He quickly polished off one piece and was starting on a second when the shot rang out behind him. He spun to see Breeze just lowering the gun. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" She tossed his own question back to him. "I've never shot a handgun before. Rifles, shotguns, not a handgun. I just wondered how different it was." She aimed and fired again. Speed never could stop her from something she was determined to do. For Breeze, life was an adventure, new challenges, new experiences. Her energy left him far behind on many things. It was one of the most annoying – and attractive – parts of her personality.

Of course, if anyone caught him letting his girlfriend fire his service revolver, he would get in trouble. It was against the rules. On the other hand, nobody else was down here. He removed the ear protectors from around his neck and put them on her. "Here. At least do it right."

"Thanks," she said, not looking around. She fired four more shots as Speed ate pizza, and he came up behind her to see as she ran the target up to them. He nearly choked on his pizza. Not spectacular shooting, not bull's eye like Horatio or Calleigh, but she had landed every shot in the head somewhere. For her first time with a handgun, it was remarkable.

"You're pretty good," he admitted.

"Thanks. I've hunted since I was a kid." She ran a fresh target back to the end of the range. "Guess I'd better let you get back to it. You're practicing for your annual test, right?"

"How'd you know that?"

"You left the letter about the date on the kitchen table." She handed the gun back to him. "Didn't eat all the pizza, did you?"

"Only half." He took the ear protectors from her and put them back on as she started eating. Aim and fire. He tried to think of how Horatio or Calleigh approached a target, but he couldn't. It seemed so natural to them. Not cold, not impersonal. He finished the round and brought the target up for inspection. Getting a little better. A couple of hours cramming on a few nights, and he would pass. He always did.

Breeze came up to look over his shoulder at the target. "Wow, you're not very good at this, are you?" she said with her mouth full.

The accuracy of her shooting – first time, no less – suddenly hit him in the face. "I guess you think you could do better," he snapped.

Breeze backed off a step. "I wasn't comparing them, Tim. It just surprised me a little, you being a cop and your tests coming up. You really are out of practice, aren't you?"

"I'll pass. I always do." He loaded the gun again, and this time, she watched him shoot. He missed badly. "Do you have to stand there looking over my shoulder?"

"Sorry." She studied him. "It really bugs you, doesn't it? That I did better at this."

"No, it doesn't," he insisted and missed even further on his next shot.

She put down the unfinished piece of pizza. "Tim, I think you could do better if you held your hands a little higher. Gives you a better line of sight. That might help."

He put the gun down, turned, and glared at her. "I don't need lessons from you. I'm the one who's the cop, remember?"

"I don't believe it. It is bugging you. I was just trying to help. There's not a lot of time before your test next week."

"I know that!" His voice suddenly got louder, and she stepped back. "Look, I know what I'm doing here, I do it every year, and I don't need you standing there keeping score on how much better you did, so just back off, okay?"

"I wasn't. . . " Her voice trailed off. "Fine, if I'm bothering you, I'll leave. Good night, Tim." She stalked out of the room, and he stood there debating whether to go after her. The trouble was, she was right. It did bother him, really bother him, that she could top him at this with no practice, while he struggled to meet force requirements every year. She shouldn't have made such an issue of it, though. He knew he was a failure as a cop without his girlfriend telling him. He would never be Tripp or Horatio or Calleigh. He was simply Speed, the trace expert who wished that his job didn't require him to leave the lab. He turned back and fired round after round into the target, but somehow, even though Breeze wasn't looking over his shoulder now, it didn't get any better.

(H/C)

The Hummer wound its way to the outskirts of the city, and Horatio glanced over at Rosalind in her car seat as he stopped at a light. "Ready for an adventure, Angel?" She cooed back at him. "You're supposed to start talking any day, you know it? Can you say Mama, Rosalind?" She sent back a happy stream of nonsense, and he shook his head as the light changed. "You'll like talking once you start. It makes things a lot easier." She didn't seem convinced, contemplating her fingers instead.

Horatio turned into the stable and drove up the long driveway to the barn. Only one vehicle was there, the one that had once belonged to Sam, Lisa's murdered partner in the business. He parked next to it, got out, and extracted Rosalind. She looked around and jabbered excitedly. "New place, isn't it? Wait till you see the inside."

The main aisle was deserted except for the cat, who lay in the precise center like a guardian sphinx. She stood and stretched herself fore and aft before ambling over to them, and Horatio knelt down to bring Rosalind on a level with her. "Hello, Ruth. Remember me? I sure remember you." He scratched the cat under the chin. She had complicated one of his cases horribly by stealing part of the evidence. Unrepentant, she purred like a helicopter, and Rosalind reached out to grab her. "No, Rosalind, don't pull the tail. I know it looks like a handle, but it isn't one. Here." He guided her hand along the fur, then released it, and she petted the cat herself. Ruth went into hyperpurr, leaning into her hand. Rosalind was delighted. With feline changeability, Ruth abruptly decided that she had been social enough and stalked off, and Horatio stood up. Rosalind stretched her arms toward the retreating cat. "No, we're not going after the kitty. Believe it or not, Angel, I'm working. Let's try to find Lisa."

He heard the music as he opened the door to the indoor ring, but it took him a minute to place it. Something about guns, dust, battle. Gettysburg. Lisa was riding Chrissy to a medley from the movie Gettysburg. The horse and rider were completely in a zone, not even noticing the audience, and Horatio stood there, unwilling to interrupt.

The horse danced around the end of the rectangular ring with mincing steps to the light music. Abruptly, the music swelled, surging into a powerful charge, sweeping the horse along with it across the diagonal in an extended trot. The mare collected her stride again at the end of the ring, then slid effortlessly into a canter. She began skipping, changing leads every second stride, then every stride in controlled exuberance. Back to the end of the ring, and she dropped into a stately march as the music changed again. The hooves hovered above the ground, almost reluctant to touch it. The horse seemed suspended in air for a phase of each stride. Suddenly, as the music gathered itself, the forward motion stopped, and the horse stayed in one place, feet still moving, the legs rising and falling on the spot. After several strides in place, Chrissy picked it up again, catching the change in the music perfectly, once again traveling in a floating march around the ring. The music and the horse stopped simultaneously, and the magic slowly dissipated, leaving the memory still real enough to hear, to see, to remember. Horatio suddenly recalled Rosalind, who hadn't made a sound in five minutes, and he looked at her. She was staring at the horse, rapt.

"Hello, Lisa," Horatio called, stepping away from the wall.

Lisa turned off the CD player with the remote control hung from her belt, then turned the horse to face them. "Hi, Horatio. Didn't see you come in."

"You were busy. That was beautiful, Lisa."

"Wasn't it?" She gave the horse a pat, and Chrissy turned her head around and rumbled under her breath. Pats were fine, but she knew that her rider also carried carrots. Lisa laughed and took a carrot slice from her treat pouch, offering it to the horse. She let her walk on then, the reins loose, the horse's head stretched down. "I need to walk her for a bit, Horatio, to let her cool down. Just go ahead and ask me whatever you need to know. Chrissy won't mind me talking as long as I'm just cooling her out, not really riding."

"Have you ever heard of Randy Duncan?"

"Sure. He's a pretty well-known trainer. Not tip-top level like some, but he only runs a small stable. Insists on actually training his horses himself. There are a few at the very top who have five or six assistants around the country, and the trainer simply flies from one place to another and shows up in the winner's circle. Those are rare, but they're the ones who make the papers more. Randy Duncan is quite good, though. He trained the 2-year-old champion colt of last year, Silver Lining."

Horatio came to attention. "Silver Lining. Do you think he'll win at the Breeders' Cup Saturday?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. He's good enough, but the poor horse hasn't had a thing go right this year. He hurt a ligament in the spring that laid him up for a few months, knocked him out of the Kentucky Derby. Then, he's had three races since he got back in training, and he's lost all three. You can make excuses for all of them, traffic problems and such. A horse was disqualified for interfering with him in one of them. Still, they were races that needed excusing. If he's really back in form, yes, he could win, but he won't be the favorite."

"I'm trying to get an angle on the money end of this. One of Duncan's grooms was killed, and there's a chance that money was involved, although it might also be a picture he took. I don't understand that trainer, though. He seems absolutely desperate for the horse to win. Is he in financial trouble?"

"Not that I know of. He's a respected trainer, Horatio. Does a good job with his horses. Of course, nobody puts their financial problems on the front page unless other people do it for them."

"The track spokesman said that there's 14 million on the line Saturday. What would Duncan get of that?"

"He's running two horses. One goes in the Distaff, and Silver Lining goes in the Classic. The Distaff is worth 2 million, the Classic worth 4. Winner gets 52 percent of the purse money for the race, and the trainer and jockey each get 10 percent of the horse's earnings. On the Classic, if Silver Lining won, Duncan would get a little over $200,000."

"Is there a chance someone could drug the horse, either to lose or to rev him up a bit to help him win?"

"Not in the Breeders' Cup. It'd be hard in an ordinary race, actually. Any winner of any race gets blood and urine drug tests immediately, and the stewards also pick a few other non winners at random from each race to test. Besides, Duncan really is a good trainer, Horatio. Known for being totally honest with his owners and with the press. I can't see him even trying it."

Horatio changed gears. Whatever was bothering Duncan had to be pretty extreme, given Lisa's description of him, which ran totally against Horatio's impression. It might not be related to the murder, though. Maybe the man did have gambling debts. "What about Pete Carter? Ever hear of him?"

"He used to be a jockey. Now, he's a photographer." Lisa abruptly stopped Chrissy. "Is he the one who got killed?"

"Yes. Have you seen his work as a photographer?"

"I've got a copy of his book, actually. I'll let you have it on the way out. He was really good, Horatio."

"I'd appreciate that. Any opinions on his reputation and honesty?"

"He was a top jockey. Finally retired three years ago after breaking his neck. I never heard anybody say anything against him. He had a reputation for being totally trustworthy."

"Another thing. Do you ever lie to your horses, Lisa?"

"Never." The denial was absolute, and she didn't seem to think it was an odd question.

"Why not?"

"They're totally honest. So different from people. They don't always cooperate, but if a horse wants to fight you, he'll fight you outright. They don't have a hidden agenda. You might not like it, but you know exactly where they stand. They make me ashamed of us as people sometimes, actually."

Horatio nodded, understanding that point now. "Thank you, Lisa. If you could let me have that book, I'd appreciate it. I'll return it, of course. One final question, just out of curiosity. Is Silver Lining insured for 20 million?"

"I don't know, but that sounds about right. He was 2-year-old champion, and he's got excellent bloodlines. They could probably sell him right now to a stud farm for 20 or 25 million, even with his record this year. He's a son of Storm Cat, the most expensive stallion in the country. Storm Cat has a stud fee of $500,000 per mare."

Horatio's head tilted, adding that up. "$500,000 per mare?"

"Yep. Crazy, isn't it? Multiply that by 200 mares a year by about 24 or so predicted years as an active stallion. Nice income producer they have there."

"And people actually pay that?"

"There's a waiting list. The other side of it is how well his offspring do. You don't even have to wait until they start to race as 2-year-olds. You can get your money back as a breeder at the yearling sales. Just this September, a Storm Cat colt sold for 8 million at the Keeneland yearling auction. That's for a horse who's never even been ridden yet, much less raced."

"If Silver Lining wins Saturday, what's he worth then?"

"40 or 45 million. And at that, the stud farm would get their money back pretty quickly. Say he goes to stud for $50,000 per mare. About 120 mares per year is the average for the top sires or sire prospects. It takes 4 years until people have any evidence whether he's a total failure at stud or not, because it takes his first crop that long to get to the races. So by the time anything sired by him would race, the farm has over half of its money back, and nobody gives up on a stallion until he's had a few years of failures, so they could bank another couple of years from that. It's an excellent investment, actually, if you've got the money to play it at that level." She brought Chrissy to a stop and dismounted. "You know the neat thing, though? The other horse Duncan has in the Breeders' Cup was produced on a $2,000 stud fee, and she's the only horse her owners have. She's probably worth a few million at this point. You have horses worth 20 million competing head to head with horses worth a fraction of that, and the more expensive horse isn't guaranteed to win. Racing is a great game for people who like adrenaline. You'll lose more than you win, though."

Horatio grinned at her as she approached. "You'll stick with dressage, though, right?"

"No contest. I'll take precision over adrenaline any day. I do like following racing, though."

Rosalind hadn't made a sound all this time, never taking her eyes off the horse. Now, as Lisa led Chrissy up to them, she suddenly reached out with both hands, trying to grab that tantalizing long snout as it came up to them. Chrissy's ears flattened. "Back!" Lisa said firmly, and Chrissy and Horatio both obeyed, tripling the distance between them.

"No," Horatio said. Rosalind reached out again, but Chrissy was a safe distance away.

Lisa studied her. "Look, kid, if you want to meet a horse, let's try a more sociable one. Chrissy isn't the best choice here." She led the mare out of the ring and down to the main aisle, cross-tying her in one of the grooming stalls. She traded the bridle for the halter and removed the saddle, then left the mare standing tied. "Hang on a second, Chris." She went to the stall across the aisle. "Do you remember Valentine, Horatio?"

"Vividly."

Lisa emerged from the stall leading the small gray. "Here, kid. Grab this one." Rosalind reached out again, latching onto the muzzle, stroking the horse like she had petted the cat. If Valentine could have smiled, he would have. He leaned into her, his ears alert with interest. "Want a ride?"

Horatio hesitated. He knew that Valentine was a little girl's pet, but he also had seen him do some dangerous things. Granted, that had been under exceptional circumstances. "Are you sure it's safe?"

Lisa studied him. "Val is as safe as any horse can be. Is anything worthwhile in life totally safe, Horatio?"

"Good point." He still hesitated, though. Rosalind had explored up the horse's face to the ears, discovering to her delight how far over she could pull them. Valentine still looked like he was in horse heaven, as did Rosalind. Finally, Horatio stepped around to the horse's side and set Rosalind on his back, carefully holding her in place.

Lisa tightened the lead rope. "I'll lead him down the aisle and back, and you walk alongside and hold her."

The music of hooves rang on the roughened concrete aisle as the horse ambled gently down the aisle and back. Horatio was ready to reassure Rosalind if she needed it, but it wasn't necessary. She wasn't squirming, either. Her body was absolutely motionless, but her eyes were wide, seeing the world from a whole new perspective. They went up and down the aisle twice, then stopped. Chrissy, tired of standing, stretched out one front hoof and began banging her steel shoe on the concrete like she was playing drums. Lisa laughed. "She can't stand to be just parked somewhere. If I was actually riding, she'd throw a fit. Better get off now."

Horatio pulled Rosalind down, and she didn't protest. Her eyes were still wide, and she reached out again almost respectfully to pat the horse. Lisa gave her a minute, then led Valentine back into the stall and took off his halter. "Your first ride, kid," she said as she exited. "Remember it."

"I believe she will," Horatio replied, watching his daughter's expression.

Lisa crossed back over to Chrissy and picked up a brush. "Don't get her within reach of Chrissy. She really doesn't like kids."

"We'll stay right here," Horatio said from the middle of the aisle. "Thank you for your information, Lisa."

"No problem. Give me five minutes, and I'll get that book for you." She brushed the horse off, cleaned out each hoof with the hoof pick, then picked up a bottle from a shelf at the side of the grooming stall. Using an old toothbrush, she began to paint Chrissy's hocks with the liquid.

Horatio abruptly came to attention, staring at the bottle. DMSO. Dimethyl sulfoxide. He had seen another bottle just like this one in the tack room near Pete's cot. Pete had had what they thought was an extra toothbrush, too. He would have to look it up, but he seemed to remember that the drug had some interesting qualities. "That's an anti-inflammatory, isn't it?"

"Yes. Lots of things, really. They use it for everything from arthritis to spinal cord injuries overseas, but the FDA won't approve it for people here." She smiled at him. "That just keeps it cheap. Wonderful stuff. I use it on my leg all the time."

"Do you think it's likely that someone working around horses would use it on himself?"

"Probably about 75 of horse people who are around it at all have used it on themselves. Believe me, it works better than anything else out there."

"It travels through the skin, doesn't it? Totally penetrates the membranes?"

"Right. It's like an injection without a needle. Way beyond those local arthritis creams. This stuff crosses cell barriers like they don't exist. That's why I use a toothbrush for it. Getting it on your hands to apply it is giving yourself a double dose. Anytime it touches you, it enters the system." She stepped away from the horse for a minute and ran the toothbrush across the back of his free hand. The stuff was liquid fire, burning yet not hurting. He could actually feel it penetrating the skin and tissues, heating all the way into the joints, then fanning out. The attraction for anybody with arthritis was crystal clear. He'd never felt anything work so deeply, either. And Pete Carter had had a broken neck.

"Lisa." The intensity in his voice stopped her task, and she looked up to face him. "Could it act as a carrier? Could you mix something else with it and have it take that across the membranes into the body, too?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. I've never had any reason to try it."

His expression was totally professional now, and Rosalind returned from her equine daze to study him curiously. "I think someone else might have had reason to try it. Could I have that, Lisa, as a sample to compare to some other?"

"Sure." She recapped the bottle and handed it to him. "Keep it. It only costs a few bucks." She unclipped the cross ties and led Chrissy into her stall. When Horatio left the barn five minutes later, he took away with him Pete Carter's first book, the bottle of DMSO, and a whole new theory for the murder method.


	3. Photo Finish 3

See chapter 1 for disclaimers, rating, etc. Here's a short (yes, really) bonus chapter for you before my week starts. By the way, for those who asked, DMSO really is a fantastically-effective medicine and is available cheap at any farm supply store. Note that the FDA thinks it's dangerous. Horse people have used it for decades anyway.

(H/C)

"DMSO has untold uses around the barn."

Quote from a bottle of DMSO that I bought. This was the line that immediately jabbed my muse and led directly to the birth of this story.

(H/C)

Horatio sat on the couch waiting. The book propped across his lap was fascinating, but part of his mind was also aimed toward Calleigh. He hoped she was having a fun evening, but as always when they were apart, he missed her.

He slowly turned the pages of Pete Carter's book, studying the shots, getting to know the victim. Pete had been brilliant. He had an eye for detail and an ability to frame shots that instantly transported the viewer to the scene. Horatio could almost hear the hoofbeats and the crowd.

A duck floated in a puddle on a very wet track. Behind her, the tote board displayed the odds and other information, including one item centered directly over the duck's head. Track condition: Sloppy.

A jockey, head down, face streaked with dirt, dismounted from a horse, head down, face streaked with dirt. Their mutual disappointment in their performance was clear in both bodies.

A horse galloped in the morning fog, the exposure somehow set so that the legs blurred, making the animal a vague, misty silhouette, otherworldly, unable to be captured completely even by the film. The shot was labeled Morning Dreams.

A horse's head almost completely filled one frame, only sky visible as a border. The ears were up, the eyes calmly alert, focused not on the photographer but on something in the distance that only the horse could see. The caption below that one read Seattle Slew: The Look of Eagles.

A horse returned after a win, and Pete had somehow made the focus of the shot the grandstand behind him, where the crowd was on its feet, applauding. The horse was angling his neck toward his public as he walked, accepting the accolades.

Two horses stretched toward the finish line, strides in absolute unison, ears flat back for streamlining, heads straining forward toward the fast-approaching goal. The jockeys folded down tightly on their backs against the wind of their speed, only trying not to interfere, knowing that their mounts were giving everything on their own. The caption was one word: Determination.

Horatio especially noticed the background of the shots. The background crowd was visible in many of the shots as Pete tried to transport the feel of the surroundings. People were recognizable if you looked closely enough. In research on his behind-the-scenes racing book, Pete could easily have caught something behind the horse that the subject might not have wanted published.

The car pulled into the driveway, and Horatio closed the book and stood. He was waiting when Calleigh entered, and neither of them said anything for a few minutes.

"Well, I missed you, too," she finally stated as soon as they parted for air. "Is Rosalind sleeping?"

"Like a baby." Horatio stepped back to let her fill his vision. "How was your evening?"

"Fun. Good conversation, good movie. Sally says hi. I was glad I had your picture with me, though. She thought you might not be real. I told her I'd wanted to demonstrate you in person, but you thought you'd be in the way, since she doesn't know you."

"We can't do everything together."

"Why not?" Calleigh couldn't think of a single good reason at the moment.

"The books say it isn't a good idea," Horatio replied.

"What do they know?" Calleigh moved around him to put her purse in its nook and slipped her shoes off, curling her toes luxuriously into the carpet. She always enjoyed removing her shoes at the end of a long day.

"I do have bad news, though," Horatio stated.

"What's that?"

"Our daughter wants a horse."

Calleigh grinned. "She liked the stable, then?"

"Loved it. You should have seen her. Lisa was doing one of her musical rides when we got there, and Rosalind was spellbound. Lisa had to get out Valentine to give Rosalind a horse she could play with. She even got a ride up the aisle and back."

Calleigh's grin abruptly faded. "Valentine. Isn't that the horse on that other case who was acting so psychotic that you used him to terrify the perps into confessing?"

"Um, yes." Calleigh glared at him. "He was perfectly friendly. He just didn't like the criminals, but he likes children." Horatio came across to face her. "I walked alongside him and held her on. She didn't have a chance of falling."

The thought of Horatio's strong, secure arms eased her worry a bit, but she still remembered Alexx's recitation of injuries that afternoon. "I'm not sure you should have encouraged her, though. Remember everything Pete had happen to him?"

"Pete was a jockey. That's totally different. I promise you, if Rosalind ever wants to be a jockey, I'll put my foot down."

"I'll bet," Calleigh said sarcastically. "I haven't seen you do it with Rosalind yet. She didn't happen to say anything tonight, did she?"

"No. I spent the drive over there and back talking to her, and I was showing her your picture later when we got home. I'm still waiting for that mama, though."

"What makes you think she's going to say mama first, Horatio? I really think you'll win that race."

He grinned at her. "She already has a name for me."

"That's not a word, just a sound."

"Still counts. The way I see it, she's bound to say mama first."

Calleigh ambled over to the couch and curled up contentedly on it. She had enjoyed the evening with her friend, but being here with her husband talking about their daughter won by a landslide. She noticed the book lying on the couch and picked it up. "Pete Carter's book. Did you get that from Lisa?"

Horatio sat down next to her, sliding over until their shoulders met. "She loaned it to me. I wanted to get a feel for his pictures."

Calleigh flipped through several of them. "He was really good, Horatio. The background people are definitely recognizable on several of them, though."

"I think that's got to be it. You can start looking through his other film tomorrow, see if anything jumps out. I wish we could salvage that last roll, but it's too far gone. Also, we might have a new murder method."

"What's that?"

"DMSO. It's a medicine used for horses, usually as an anti-inflammatory. The FDA has several questions about it and won't approve it for people, but Lisa said most horse people use it on themselves anyway."

"Why haven't we noticed all of them dying, then?"

"It isn't poisonous itself. I've been doing some research on the internet since Rosalind got to sleep. DMSO crosses the skin barrier and travels directly into the system. About five minutes after it's applied, it's found in the bloodstream. Within two hours, it's in every organ in the body. That's part of what worries the FDA, even though the body doesn't seem to be harmed by it. Like an injection without a needle, Lisa called it. I'd say Pete woke up, put some DMSO on his stiff neck, and was just getting dressed when the reaction hit him a few minutes later as the drug entered the bloodstream."

Calleigh picked up the line of thought. "You think somebody mixed something else with it that Pete was allergic to, and that's what sparked the reaction? Will it take something else into the system with it?"

"Maybe. According to the internet, it depends on the molecular weight of what you add. Substances with a high molecular weight don't mix, but it carries low molecular weight substances right along with it. Insulin, for instance, doesn't work at all. Several studies were tried on that, to see if diabetics could use a DMSO mixture instead of shots. Insulin is too heavy."

"We need to get a record of Pete's allergies. I wonder if the trainer or the track has that information."

"And how accessible it is to other people on the backstretch. I figure there have to be basic medical records on file at the track somewhere. Think of all of Pete's injuries. So many people get hurt there, you wouldn't want to be stuck waiting for information from the family. Racetrack workers travel all around the country, too, according to Wallace, so the family might not be immediately available. They'd have to keep their basic medical info along with them."

Calleigh frowned slightly in thought. "That changes our picture of the perp, doesn't it?"

"Exactly. He was trying for a quiet method, something that would be put down as an accident or a natural death. Pete falling on that hay hook must have complicated his plans horribly. Now, he'll be even more desperate for us to get the crime pinned on someone. Hence the effort to frame Ramon. It makes me wonder if whatever Pete saw was a preliminary meeting, planning something for the future that the perp can't carry out with cops all over the backstretch."

"We have got to get Ramon to talk, Horatio. He could be in danger himself."

"I know. I'm going to try it again tomorrow. I've got to figure out what that trainer is hiding, too. By the way, Lisa says that he's a well-respected, honest, conscientious trainer. Tomorrow, you can look at Pete's pictures, Eric and Speed can process what they've got, including comparing Pete's DMSO to Lisa's pure sample, and I'll head back to the track."

Calleigh put her arm around him. "And all this since leaving CSI tonight and while baby-sitting. Been working pretty hard for a night off, haven't you?"

"I didn't have anything better to do," he replied.

Calleigh pulled him more tightly against her. "You do now. So why on earth are we sitting here, married to each other, with our daughter sound asleep, and just talking about the case?"

Horatio's eyes sparkled as he came closer. "Excellent question."


	4. Photo Finish 4

A/N: Another shorter chapter for you. I didn't have time to write down a longer one. See chapter 1 for disclaimer, notes, etc. I have discovered two omissions from the acknowledgements and disclaimers in chapter 1, which was transferred from mind to document on a night I shouldn't have tried it. First, Ruth should have been credited as a real character. Being a cat, she has not exactly granted me complete rights, but she does eat at my house. Second, I am also grateful to my aunt, vice president in a bank, for giving me an insider's view of bank robbery and the precautions the banks take against it.

(H/C)

"There is no secret so close as that between a rider and his horse."

Robert Smith Surtees

(H/C)

Horatio arrived at Gulfstream Park the next morning after a quick stop at CSI. The morning bustle was at full force, and a groom told him to look for Duncan over at the track. He left the Hummer at the barn, since walking was about as fast as driving under these conditions. The backstretch was even busier than the previous morning, with horses and people everywhere. Horatio carefully picked his way through the activity, watching it with a professional eye at the same time. This actually would be a smart choice for a clandestine meeting, two people hiding their conversation in plain sight of a hundred others who were too busy to care. Much less attention getting than surreptitious whispers in corners. Only the eye of Pete's camera had caught them. Hopefully, it had caught them at least twice. Back at CSI, Calleigh was thoroughly sifting through Pete's previous rolls of film, and Horatio knew that if a prior shot was there to be found, she would find it. Speed and Eric were processing other evidence from the tack room, including Pete's DMSO. Horatio could feel this case building, the evidence linking into chains that would eventually cuff the as-yet-unknown killer.

The musical thunder of hoofbeats rolled along the track, announcing in advance the storm of speed to come on Saturday. The horses seemed to be divided into unmarked lanes, faster ones by the inside rail, slower moving ones out toward the middle of the track, precisely following unposted traffic laws while totally ignoring each other. Horatio was surprised at how vocal the exercise riders were, many talking constantly to their mounts. A few of them were even singing as they galloped around, and no one within earshot seemed to think it was at all odd for these hardened, grown men to be singing to horses in public. Each horse and rider existed in their own personal cocoon for these few moments, oblivious to the audience, oblivious to anything except the track and the rhythm of their flight.

Horatio spotted Duncan up ahead, leaning against the rail around the outer edge of the track. His hands clutched a stopwatch like a lifeline, but his eyes ignored it for the moment, glued to the horse. Silver Lining came down the inside rail, stretched out in a pounding gallop, hooves greedily reaching out for the ground and conquering it with each stride. The horse flashed past the marked post directly in front of his trainer, and Duncan's finger snapped down on the stopwatch stem. His hands closed over the watch face, and he still did not look, almost afraid to. His head turned, following the slowing horse, and only when Silver Lining had dropped down to a trot and turned around did Duncan stare at his hands, then slowly open them. His shoulders quivered slightly as he released a shuddering sigh.

"Mr. Duncan?" Horatio had been standing behind him for a minute, but Duncan obviously hadn't noticed him. He nearly dropped the watch as he whirled.

"Lieutenant. Have you found out who killed Pete yet?"

"Not yet, but we're making progress. I'd like to ask you a few more questions."

"Of course. Anything I can do to help." Duncan turned his back on Horatio even while he was saying it, completely focused once again on the approaching horse. "Well, Sarah?"

Horatio realized for the first time that the rider was female. They were the exception on the backstretch, but he had seen several among the men. Sarah pushed her helmet back to wipe sweat off her forehead. "He's ready. Pulling my arms out. I had an awful time making him gallop that slow half mile first."

"What about the leg?" Duncan was ducking under the rail and stepping forward to check it himself even as he asked.

The rider hopped off the horse, still holding onto the reins. "I couldn't tell any difference in his stride. Changed leads right away off the turn when I asked. He's feeling good, Randy. What did you get him in?"

The trainer straightened up and glanced at the stopwatch again for confirmation. "57 and 2/5."

Sarah whistled, and Silver Lining pricked his ears and looked at her. "He's ready," she repeated.

Horatio cleared his throat softly, and Duncan looked startled, like he'd forgotten he was there. "Um, yes, take him back to the barn yourself, Sarah, okay? Ben's there. I'll be over in a few minutes."

The rider looked at Horatio curiously, noticing him for the first time herself, then shrugged, returning her attention to the horse. "Come on, champ. Won't be too many more days. You can't wait, can you?" She walked off, leading the horse and talking to him in a one-sided conversation that somehow seemed two-sided. Duncan turned to face Horatio.

"So, about Pete. How are you doing?"

"We've found out a few things at the autopsy. Do you have a list of his allergies, Mr. Duncan?"

"Of course. I've got everybody's allergies and medical conditions in a notebook. It's back at the barn."

"Would everyone know that?"

Duncan nodded. "In case we need it quickly when someone gets hurt." He nodded toward an ambulance parked at the outer edge of the track. "Horses are a lot of things, Mr. Caine, but safe isn't one of them. This is the only sport where an ambulance actually drives around the track behind the athletes during the races. Fall off a horse at 45 miles an hour in a whole field of galloping horses, and you don't just get up."

"Did you know Pete had multiple old fractures?"

"Not odd for a jockey. Probably most of them riding Saturday average in the teens for broken bones." Duncan was totally professional, relaxed, and helpful at the moment. This was the man Lisa had described. "Why do his allergies matter?"

"He died from an allergic reaction."

"Not the hook?"

"No, he fell on the hook as he collapsed."

"Then it was just an accident, right?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Duncan. You keep DMSO around the barn, don't you?"

"Of course. We use it all the time. It wouldn't kill somebody, though."

"It might if something else was mixed with it. Something Pete was allergic to."

Duncan was shocked. Horatio, watching him critically, was absolutely convinced the reaction was genuine. "You mean somebody researched it and deliberately killed him? I thought it was a fight or something, with the hook. That's almost worse, that somebody could be that cold-blooded."

"Unfortunately, many people are. I'd like your book of allergies, Mr. Duncan, for fingerprints."

"Of course. Could I have a copy of the information, though? We do have a reason for keeping it available."

"Certainly." They started walking back toward the barns. "Describe your grooms and workers to me, please."

Duncan hesitated, then accepted the obvious fact that it probably was one of them. "Mixed bunch. Any trainer has different kinds. Some of them come in with romantic ideas, find out how hard work it is, and split within a few weeks. We have a lot of turnover. Hardly a week goes by that someone isn't quitting or someone else isn't asking for a job. Of course, I don't assign the best horses to the new ones until they've proven themselves."

Horatio suddenly jumped on that train of thought. "You mean anybody could get through that security gate into the backstretch just by saying he was looking for a job?" With all the elaborate security, he'd wondered how someone made it back here to meet with the killer and get photographed doing it.

Duncan looked puzzled. "Not at night, certainly. Only during the day when at least a hundred people are around. Nobody got in like that to dose Pete's DMSO at night."

"That wasn't what I was thinking of." Horatio filed that information and made a note to check the security gate log. "Back to your employees, please."

"I have 16 grooms at the moment. Some of them have been with me for years, like Ramon. About two-thirds of them are new this year in different months. Pete, of course, was researching his book. He was good, though. Carlos is one I don't expect to last long. Harder work than he thought. Misael is good, but he wants every week to be the Breeders' Cup. You lose a lot more than you win. He'll probably quit before long. Then, there's Juan. He's been with me a few months. He's doing research, too."

"Another book?"

"No. He's one of those people who thinks he can develop the perfect gambling system." Duncan smiled for the first time Horatio had seen. "The perfect gambling system doesn't exist. He's trying to combine statistics with inside information, watching the horses work, getting a feel for who's sitting on a big race. He's had trouble keeping jobs in the mainstream world because he didn't have the office mentality. He likes the horses, even if he thinks of them as commodities. Good groom, but I don't give him the best ones. He'll never find what he's looking for, though. If his system worked, we'd all be rich around here." Duncan's helpfulness abruptly shattered against the rock of desperation. He unconsciously pulled the stopwatch out of his pocket and looked at it again.

Horatio filed Juan for further investigation. Maybe he was the one with gambling debts. "One more thing, Mr. Duncan." He hesitated long enough for the silence to draw the man's eyes away from the watch face. "What are you hiding?"

Duncan looked away again and swallowed hard, but Horatio had read him correctly. He would respond with resistance, not evasion like Ramon. Of the two, resistance was easier to overcome. "That doesn't have anything to do with Pete's death."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Duncan, but I can't just accept your word for that. I'm investigating a murder."

They had stopped to face each other, creating a ripple in the morning traffic as horses and people flowed around them. Duncan eyed Horatio, who was standing like a polite rock, solid and immovable. "If I can convince you, you wouldn't have to put it in the report, right?"

"If it has no business in the report, it won't be there," Horatio promised.

Duncan looked away again at the passing horses. It was easier to watch them than this stranger. "My father was diagnosed a few months ago with Alzheimer's disease. He'd been slipping for a long time, but my mother didn't realize how much. None of us saw it. None of us wanted to see it." He glanced back quickly at Horatio and was surprised to see genuine compassion, not pure professional analysis. "He's in a nursing home now. But he was the one who always handled the financial affairs, and obviously, his judgment's been disintegrating for the last few years. He cashed out their retirement funds and invested them in pipe dreams. Everything's gone, and the house has two mortgages on it that Mom didn't even know about until she took over and the banks started talking to her instead of Dad. They're going to foreclose on her, Mr. Caine. That house was built by my grandfather before she was born. She's already lost Dad, the person he used to be, anyway, and she's about to lose everything else familiar to her."

Horatio understood. "The money on Saturday would stop the foreclosure."

Duncan nodded. "I've tried to help her as much as I can, but nobody gets rich working in this business, Mr. Caine. I charge a flat fee per horse per day, and all the feed, employees, supplies, and expenses come off of that. Outside of my percentage of winnings, I hardly clear enough to support my wife and kids. There isn't any extra."

"A friend I asked said that you had two horses running Saturday."

"One of them honestly is here for the fun of it. She's already gone a lot higher than we ever would have dreamed of. She might surprise us, but there are better horses in the field. They'd have to falter for her to win. Besides, more of the money is in the Classic. It's the richest race in America." Duncan stared down at the stop watch again briefly. "Mr. Caine, nothing has gone right this year for Silver Lining, but the last few weeks, I can almost feel it. He's finally back to himself. I honestly think he should win. And if he did, in one race, Mom would be off the hook with the bank. So yes, I'm desperate for this win, and then I'm afraid to be so desperate, because I know how much can go wrong. I hate having so much riding on one race. But I don't know anything about who killed Pete Carter."

"I'm sorry," Horatio said softly, and Duncan looked back up from the watch to meet his eyes. "I hope everything turns out for you, and I won't write this in the report."

"Thank you." They started walking toward the barn again.

"What do you know about Ramon?" Horatio asked.

"Wonderful groom. He's spent hundreds of hours with that horse this year nursing him back after he was injured. He's always quiet, but he has a real feeling for the horses. I wish I had a dozen like him."

"Do you know anything about his family?"

"I know his father is dead. His mother is still in Mexico, and I think he has at least one younger sibling. He sends his money back to them. Probably, they're saving to come here, too."

"If Silver Lining won, he'd get a nice paycheck, too, wouldn't he?"

"Over $40,000." Duncan suddenly saw the money through someone else's eyes. "I hadn't thought of that. That win would probably mean as much to his family as to mine." Automatically, the doubts crept in to apply brakes to his speculation. "Nothing is guaranteed, though. The fastest horse doesn't always win. He should've won last time, and he ran into traffic problems."

They arrived back at Duncan's barn, and the trainer went to the second tack room, at the opposite end of the barn from the one where Pete had died. Hanging on a hook in plain sight was a notebook that said Medical Information in red letters on the cover. Duncan started to reach for it, and Horatio stopped him, snapping on gloves before he picked it up himself. He flipped through the pages, noting the crossed out employees and the additions. "You do have a high turnover."

"Believe me, everybody at the track does. Mine's actually better than average."

The turning pages stopped at Pete Carter. His broken neck was noted along with the other fractures, and he had been allergic to penicillin. Horatio froze in thought. Penicillin had a low molecular weight. He dropped the book into an envelope. "Randy," he said, using the man's first name for the first time, "I don't want this handled any more than we can help, but I promise, I'll have it photocopied immediately at CSI and give you copies. In the meantime, if you need anything from it, my cell phone is always on." He handed the trainer a card with the number. "Is penicillin hard to find around the track?"

"It's all over the place. You can buy injectable penicillin over the counter. It doesn't even require a vet."

"I want all of your penicillin bottles." Randy opened a small refrigerator and pointed without touching to three bottles filled with a milky white substance. Penicillin G, the label read clearly. Horatio carefully bagged them, and the two men left the tack room together.

"Randy!" A couple was practically scampering down the barn aisle toward them. They looked alike in that odd way that people married for a long time achieve. Both were at least in their 70s, but at the moment, they were acting like kids in a candy store. "We just got here today. Isn't this exciting? How's our girl?" The woman bustled up and caught both of the trainer's hands, pumping them enthusiastically.

Randy performed the introductions. "This is Charles and Meg Donovan. They own my other Breeders' Cup horse. Lieutenant Horatio Caine, Miami-Dade PD."

The woman automatically reached to shake Horatio's hand and hesitated as she saw the latex gloves and evidence envelopes. The man swept him with a look in which enthusiasm instantly yielded to professionalism. "Had trouble, Randy?"

"One of the grooms was murdered yesterday morning."

Meg's enthusiasm melted a second after her husband's, and Horatio quickly came to the conclusion that neither one of these people was half as scatterbrained as they had appeared at first. The eyes were full of calm, sad intelligence. "Oh, dear. Which one?"

"Pete Carter."

She shook her head. "Such a nice young man. Have you caught the perp yet?"

Charles saw Horatio's raised eyebrow at the term. "I'm retired FBI. 30 years. Meg and I have been through more murder investigations than I care to remember. Somehow you always do remember them, though."

Horatio nodded. "That you do. We're making good progress, I think. Randy, I need to get this evidence back to CSI. I'll come back later today to bring you the copies of the medical book, and I'll also want to talk to Ramon and to Juan. Don't tell them that in advance, though."

Randy reached out and touched him on one arm, not disturbing the evidence. "Thank you, Lieutenant Caine."

"Horatio," Horatio offered.

"Thank you, Horatio. For everything." Horatio smiled at him, then turned to leave the barn. Behind him, he heard Meg and Charles asking about their horse, and Randy replied, confident, friendly, without a trace of anything being wrong. The desperation was safely hidden.

The morning bustle was still in full swing outside as Horatio got in the Hummer. He wondered how many other secrets besides Randy's were hidden here. Glancing at the envelopes, he thought of Pete Carter, the jockey-photographer-groom who had apparently stumbled across one of those secrets and died for it without even realizing his knowledge. "There's about to be one less secret," Horatio vowed. He wound back through the maze of barns and out of Gulfstream, heading for CSI.


	5. Photo Finish 5

A/N: See chapter 1 for disclaimers, ratings, etc. This chapter is it for the next week as my schedule goes haywire, but there isn't much left on this story, maybe two chapters. I'll finish writing this story down as soon as I can. Everybody will probably like the next story in the series better – more emotion and angst, H/C family issues, and a bit less focus on case detail, although there is a case.

Somebody asked me this weekend for specific details on the Gettysburg music from the ride at the end of chapter 2, but there wasn't an email address to reply to. I made the Gettysburg freestyle by putting together three different sections of the movie soundtrack – Main Title, Battle of Little Round Top, and Fife and Gun. Then, it goes back to part of the Main Title for the conclusion. Since it's pieced together, you can't hear the exact complete freestyle music at any one point on the soundtrack. I didn't describe all of the ride in the story, either, just about the last half, and in a lot less detail than it has. For an idea of how the music matches the action, listen to Battle of Little Round Top at the very beginning. The light music is collected trot, very graceful and dancing, and then there is a sudden launch to extended trot, which is no faster but incredibly more powerful. That transition is clearly audible on the soundtrack at the first of the four main musical shifts in that piece. That's how dramatic a musical freestyle can be when the horse and rider are in total sync with the music (which doesn't always happen, granted). I wish you all could see it. Reading it doesn't do it justice.

(H/C)

"One picture is worth a thousand words."

Anonymous

(H/C)

Speed was buried in his equipment, shoulders hunched like drawn curtains to try to shield him from the world. Eric glanced at him several times as they worked on the evidence, then finally put the bottle he was processing down on the table and sat back. "So, you want to talk about it?"

Speed didn't look up. "About what?"

"The fight."

Speed did look up then. "What fight?"

"Come on, Speed. You might as well be a highway sign reading 'I had a fight with my girlfriend.' Trust me, I'm an expert on this. Been there, done that, survived so far. So, you want to talk about it?"

Speed straightened up to look at his friend fully. "Look, Delko, I don't know what you're talking about, but I have work to do if you don't." He turned back to the evidence.

"Not getting much of it done, are you? You've been processing the same thing for the last half hour." Eric stood up and went around the table in expert sympathy. "What did you do?"

"What makes you think it was my fault?"

"Statistics. Usually, if somebody screws up, it's the guy. Keep in mind, I have been there myself lots of times."

Speed dropped pretense, sitting back and abandoning the evidence. "I spent most of last night trying to figure out whose fault it was. I kept coming up with both of us."

Eric flinched. "That's a tough one. If both of you acted stupid, now you're stuck on who should apologize first."

"You really have been there, haven't you?"

"The voice of experience, no charge. What was the fight about?"

"I was on the shooting range practicing." Speed broke off as Eric feigned a choking fit. "Are you going to be serious or not?"

"Sorry." Eric dropped back into the picture of alert, serious attention, although the ghost of a grin remained around the edges.

"Anyway, Breeze started it by bringing me a pizza."

"I hate it when women do that."

Speed scowled at him. "I was taking a break, eating the pizza, and she picked up my service weapon and starting doing target practice. Trouble is, she was great at it."

Eric abruptly understood. "Better than you, huh?" His voice was purely sympathetic now, without a trace of sarcasm.

"Lots better. So I started taking practice again – I've got quals next week – and Breeze was trying to give me pointers."

"And you told her to stop comparing your skills to hers and just get lost."

"Exactly. Trouble is, she did. I didn't see her all last night. I had this apology all prepared, and nobody was home. But even if I overreacted, she shouldn't have made such a point of it."

Eric nodded. "Sounds like she could have handled it better. But so could you. She probably really was trying to help you get ready for the test, even if she didn't think about how it would sound."

"She does that. Doesn't always stop to think about things before she acts. Sure, it comes across wrong a few times, but she usually means well. Last night, though, it really got to me."

"What she said, or you being a worse shot than she is in the first place?"

Speed hesitated. "That's what I thought about all night. Yes, it bugs me how well she did. No practice, either. How would you feel?"

Eric shrugged. "So she's a better shot. So is Calleigh."

"That's different."

"I know. Calleigh's not your girlfriend. I've run into a few times when a woman beat me badly at something. What you've got to do is keep perspective, not get your ego tied up in it. She's got her talents, you've got yours. I'm sure you could beat her at some things."

"Like what?" Eric actually hesitated, conjuring up a mental list of Breeze's qualifications. "Now, you see the problem. Everything I do, she does better. She rides a bike better than I do, for instance. She even keeps a sloppier apartment than I do. So the things I do people don't like, she's even got me beat there."

"You're a better CSI."

"She's never tried. She'd probably beat me at that, too."

Eric shook his head. "You can testify in court. You can nail down the evidence on a case so tight a criminal can't wiggle out." Speed didn't look convinced. Eric switched tactics. "So obviously, if your girlfriend is getting you this down on yourself, you need to just break up with her. She's a loser. Time to cut your losses and move on."

That got the strongest reaction yet. "I don't want to. And she isn't a loser. I've never found anybody until her that could put up with me and act like she was enjoying it."

Eric flinched on the word act. "I think she meant it, Speed. No woman who isn't serious stays around for over a year. Believe me. I'm an expert on this, remember? You've got me beat, though. You've outlasted my longest relationship by a mile. So that's something you've turned out to be good at."

Speed half smiled. "Or maybe it's something she's good at."

"Or maybe it's something you're good at together. Look, what you've got to do is apologize to her."

"But I think it was her fault. As much as mine, anyway."

"Doesn't matter. Who apologized last time you had a fight?"

Speed had to think about it. "I did. We haven't had one this big yet, though."

Eric was impressed. "You really are good at this. I mean it. Anyway, the thing about apologizing is that the man is supposed to do it at least 80 of the time, regardless of fault."

"Are you serious?"

"Works for me." Eric grinned like the Cheshire cat. "At least, the women like it. Anyway, if you apologized, I'm sure she would."

"Hard at work, gentlemen?" Horatio glided into the lab like a silent panther, and both of the younger men jumped. Horatio's dancing eyes made the supervisory tone of the comment meaningless. He was obviously in a good mood today. Of course, he probably had a good night last night, Speed decided. He and Calleigh hadn't been fighting.

Eric dropped back into professionalism. "I've been running this DMSO, comparing the samples. It's just DMSO, H. Nothing else." His tone was notably devoid of failure.

"But you didn't stop there," Horatio stated.

"Right. I got a sample from that toothbrush. DMSO plus penicillin. Alexx tested for penicillin in the body and found it."

"And Pete was allergic to penicillin," Horatio filled in. "I've got the notebook of medical allergies and conditions from Duncan. It was in plain sight and clearly marked. Valera is copying it, and then you can run fingerprints." He set the bagged penicillin bottles on the table. "Print these bottles, too. Any prints on the toothbrush and the DMSO bottle?"

Speed spoke up. "Pete's on the toothbrush. Somebody else's but not Pete's on the DMSO bottle, which proves Pete didn't use that one yesterday morning. The killer switched bottles."

Horatio nodded, thinking it through. "He got there just a few minutes early. Probably everyone else went to their horses first thing in the morning, so he'd have a minute to duck into the tack room. He wasn't expecting it to look like murder, just planned on a quick bottle switch and grabbing the film. Only Ramon must have seen him as he came back out. It's time I had another conversation with Ramon."

"We can print all the grooms, too," Eric suggested.

"Right. Anything more on the light bulb you found yesterday?"

"Just a few film traces," Speed said. "No prints. He didn't touch it, just held the film up to it."

"And we found the film and the bulb in Ramon's room at the dorm. No film box anywhere." Horatio considered it. "The killer was scared himself and in a hurry. He had to get from the barn to the dorm, plant the film, and get back to the barn before he was missed. Speed, did you find any DMSO bottles in the dorm?"

"Not in the trash cans. I didn't do a thorough search of the rooms. I was just looking for film."

"I wondered about the other rooms at first, but now I don't think the killer went anywhere but Ramon's room and back to the barn. He would have been rattled, making it up as he went along. He didn't expect Pete to fall on that hook. I'd say, if the DMSO bottle with the penicillin wasn't in Ramon's room, it's in a dumpster along the route between the barn and the dorm." Horatio pulled out his cell phone. "Mr. Wallace, Horatio Caine. What days do you have trash pickup?" He listened, then smiled. "Thank you." He snapped the phone shut. "We're in luck. Trash was picked up the day before the murder and will be again tomorrow. Speed, I want you to go back to Gulfstream and search the dumpsters along that route. Get any DMSO bottles. If we can match prints from the dosed DMSO to the penicillin bottles, we've got him. We already know he wasn't wearing gloves, because his prints are on the switched bottle. He didn't expect a murder investigation when he was setting this up."

Speed sighed. "Why do I always get stuck fishing through dumpsters?"

Eric suddenly grinned. "Hey, Speedle, there's one of your talents." Speed groaned, and Horatio looked confused. Eric quickly asked his boss a question before Speed could get out of the room. "Wait a second, Speed. H, the last time you had a fight with Calleigh, who apologized first?"

Horatio hesitated, thinking it through. "I honestly don't remember. Probably I did."

Speed eyed him. "You have had fights with Calleigh, haven't you?"

"Yes. Sometimes. I just can't remember what they were about."

"Boy, you're a lot of help," Eric stated.

"Sorry," Horatio replied. "Well, we do have work to get done around here. Eric, you're processing the penicillin and the notebook when Valera brings it over, and Speed, you're working the dumpsters. I'll be with Calleigh." He started out of the lab, then hesitated in the doorway. "Oh, and Speed, whatever happened, I'd recommend that you apologize to Breeze first." He headed with unhurried efficiency toward the photo lab, leaving both Eric and Speed staring after him.

"How did he. . ." Speed started, then trailed off.

Eric gave up on it. "I don't know. He's good." He shook his head admiringly. "Better get moving, Speed. Your dumpsters await."

"Shut up." Speed was almost out of the door when he added, softly, "And thanks."

"Anytime," Eric replied.

(H/C)

Calleigh was sitting in front of the photo lab computer. The screen had all pictures from Pete's previous rolls of film, and the photo log was on the table. Calleigh had been over these shots all morning, several times, trying to see past the subject and the excellent composition into the background. She kept coming back to the same shot, and she didn't know why. Not knowing why she did something always annoyed her, at work or anything else in life.

Horatio stopped in the door, watching her for a few unguarded seconds. She was deeply in concentration and hadn't noticed him yet. The lower lip was tucked in slightly, the chin jutting in determination. The focus of her eyes should have drilled bullet holes in the computer screen. He smiled fondly, and she abruptly felt him and jumped slightly, not surprised by his appearance but surprised that she hadn't noticed it sooner. "Hey, Handsome."

"Hey, yourself." His rich voice wrapped around the greeting, almost like a verbal hug. "So, what have we got?"

She slid over on the chair to make room for him to share it, and he joined her in front of the computer. "Look at this shot." She enlarged it on the screen, focused on the top corner behind the horse, then enlarged that section again. "See these two men having a conversation here? I keep thinking I know one of them, but I can't pin it down."

Horatio tilted his head for a better perspective. Looking at things literally from a different angle helped him fit the pieces together mentally sometimes. "The one on the left."

"Exactly. Where have we seen him before?"

"I can't quite place it. He does look familiar, though." His frustration was better concealed than hers but no less present. "Does anything else jump out at you from the other pictures?"

"Only that Pete was a good photographer. It's this one, Horatio, if it's any of them. I tried comparing it to the log, too, but I can't match it to anything from that last roll of film. The titles Pete gave them aren't any help."

"He probably never knew himself." Horatio shook his head. "Such a waste of a life, and he didn't even realize whatever it was that got him killed." They took a few seconds to salute the memory of the victim in mutual silence, and then Horatio returned his focus to the picture. "It's an innocent-looking conversation. Let's print off a copy of this one. I'll see if Randy can identify the man on the right. It's probably one of his grooms."

Calleigh noted the name change. "Randy? Is he off the hook, then?" Horatio often referred to criminals by their first names but with deadly politeness, never true warmth.

"Yes." He gave her a synopsis of Randy's problems, and Calleigh was lost in sympathy herself by the time he finished. "You okay?" He had caught the wistfulness in her eyes.

"I was just remembering, as a kid, I used to think that if my parents had just been different, had been normal, loving, caring people, I wouldn't ever have any problems in life, family or otherwise."

His smile was full of regretful understanding. "I used to think that if all my family had just been still alive, I wouldn't have any problems in life, family or otherwise. That was a long time ago, though."

"Me, too."

He reached out and touched her cheek gently, sadly. "At least I've got good memories. Randy and his mother have good memories."

"I do have good memories," Calleigh assured him. "And I'm adding to them all the time."

"As am I," he replied, and that incomparable voice again embraced her. His arms followed it this time, and their lips had just found each other when a throat cleared behind them.

"I, um, finished the copies," Valera said, offering Horatio an envelope. "Sorry, but you did say you wanted them as quickly as possible."

"Thank you, Valera," Horatio replied, refusing to be embarrassed. "Does Eric have the notebook?"

"Just handed it to him."

"Great. Calleigh and I are going back to Gulfstream Park." He turned back to the computer, printing off a copy of the picture in question. "Here's what you do. Compare the man on the left here to all the wanted pictures you can find. We've seen him somewhere."

"You've got it, boss." Calleigh and Horatio stood in unison, and Valera took the chair. It was pleasantly warm from the two bodies, and Valera was smiling to herself as she started to compare pictures.

(H/C)

The Hummer parked next to its twin outside the barn. "Wonder how Speed's getting along," Horatio commented, but he was already heading into the barn as he said it. Speed would contact him with anything important, and the conversation with Ramon was much more urgent than checking up on a trusted team member.

The barn was half deserted at this hour, morning workouts over, afternoon races not yet begun. The traffic had died to a trickle. Ramon was sitting on an overturned bucket outside Silver Lining's stall, carefully cleaning a bridle. The horse had his head out over the webbing of the stall door guard, almost touching his groom's shoulder with his nose, as if he were supervising his work. Horatio and Calleigh had discussed this interview on the way from CSI and had decided to let Calleigh take the lead. Ramon might find a woman easier to connect with, since they knew his father was dead and that he sent money back to his mother. Calleigh approached him now, and Horatio fell back a few steps. "Ramon? Can I talk to you for a minute?" she asked in Spanish. The groom looked up from the leather straps, his eyes traveling over the badge, the gun, and then the face. He tensed up but nodded. Calleigh pulled up another bucket, turned it over, and sat down next to him. Horatio melted into the wall about ten feet away, removing himself completely from the conversation.

Calleigh started gently. "What's your mother's name, Ramon?"

"Maria," he said softly.

"What about your brothers?"

"One brother, one sister. Both younger."

"Randy said your father had died. How old were you then, Ramon?"

"Fifteen." His chin came up with fierce pride. "My brother was three, my sister one. I was the man of the house."

"And you helped your mother." He nodded. "You still help her, don't you? You send her your money." He hesitated, suddenly tensing up again. Calleigh decided to jump to the heart of the matter, since he was already there ahead of her. "Ramon, yesterday morning, you saw someone leaving the tack room right before you went in, didn't you? And he realized that you had seen him. So as soon as he got a chance, he threatened your family, didn't he? What did he say to you, Ramon?"

The groom was staring down at the bridle straps in his hands, unwilling to meet her eyes. It was Silver Lining who broke the moment. He abruptly reached across the webbing and took a mouthful of Calleigh's long, blonde hair, chewing thoughtfully. "Hey!" She whirled around, extricating herself, and Ramon laughed.

"Hay," he repeated in English. "To him, looks like hay." He switched back into Spanish, scolding the horse but with his dark eyes twinkling. "He's right, you know." Horatio, leaning against the wall, bit his lip to hold the laughter safely in. He didn't want to remind Ramon of his presence.

Calleigh combed the wet, matted strands out with her fingers and resisted the impulse to forget about this interview, this whole investigation, and make a beeline for a shower. Ramon was smiling as he watched her. She gave up on her hair for the moment and removed the picture from the envelope. "Ramon, is this the man?"

Ramon's smile froze, then shattered. His eyes went to the horse, who was still alertly watching them. He could not lie to this woman in front of his horse. Slowly, he nodded. Calleigh waited patiently, and he finally spoke, still softly. "He said he knew where they lived. He said if I told anyone, they would pay, that no one was there to protect them."

"He was lying," Calleigh said firmly. "The best way to protect them is getting him out of circulation. Trust me, Ramon, he was scared himself, and he was just saying the first thing he thought of to keep you quiet. He didn't have that kind of planning behind this. It was an empty threat."

"I didn't think about him at first," Ramon said. "I saw Pete, and I was shocked. I wasn't thinking. And before I could start to think about him leaving the tack room, he came to me, while we were waiting for the police." He frowned. "No blood, though. He didn't have blood on him."

"He never touched Pete. The hay hook wasn't how he killed him."

"Then who hit him with the hook?"

"Pete fell on it. The killer was trying to poison him quietly. He never wanted it to look like murder at all." Calleigh leaned in a little closer, keeping a wary eye on the horse. "Ramon, what is his name?"

"Juan. He's one of the other grooms."

"Do you know this other man in the picture, the one Juan is talking to?"

"No."

Calleigh stood. "Thank you, Ramon. You have my word, nothing will happen to your family." She turned away, and Horatio joined her as they walked down the aisle. "We've got him. Prints plus Ramon's ID."

He nodded. "We still don't know the other man or the motive, what they were planning, but maybe Juan can tell us. His plans didn't work out. He'll be scrambling. It's time we had a talk with him." He recognized the assistant trainer in front of one of the other stalls. "Excuse me. Ben, isn't it? Could you tell us where we could find Juan?"

Ben respectfully straightened up at the sight of the badges. "I think he went over to the track kitchen for lunch." He walked to the far end of the barn with them, pointing out the route from the open doorway.

"Thank you," Horatio replied. He and Calleigh started walking toward the kitchen. Horatio noted Meg and Charles Donovan, along with Randy, standing in a group near a small patch of grass ahead, watching a pretty bay mare with a white blaze cropping at the grass. They all three smiled at him, and he smiled back.

"H!" Speed's voice came from behind him, and Horatio and Calleigh both spun around. Speed was just coming out of the barn aisle. "Found it!"

Horatio and Calleigh retreated, joining him just outside the barn. "The DMSO bottle?"

"And the film box. Both in a dumpster along the route from here to the dorm. I just locked them in the Hummer and saw that you were here, too."

"Nice work, Speed. Our suspect not only has fingerprints, now he has a name. We were just about to find him."

Speed, Calleigh, and Horatio had just started out of the barn toward the track kitchen again when Ben's voice hailed them. "Lieutenant Caine! There's Juan now, just coming back. He's the one you wanted to talk to."

Juan heard. Juan bolted, wheeling around and fleeing like a startled deer, racing back in the direction he had come. The CSIs gave chase, but the race ended within just a few yards. Charles Donovan, ex-FBI agent, 6 foot 4 and still athletic at 76, planted himself like a tree in the path, and Juan, looking back over his shoulder, ran straight into him. Charles pinned his hands effortlessly behind his back as he twisted him around, holding him as easily as if he had been handcuffed. "This the murdering son-of-a-bitch you're looking for, Horatio?"

"I believe so," Horatio replied. "Thank you."

"Anytime. You got handcuffs, or should I just hold him while we wait for backup?"

"Why don't you just hold him? Speed, call Adele, would you? Juan, you're under arrest for murder. That's just at the moment; I'm sure we'll find other things to add to it. Do you want to tell us the rest, or should we work it out from the evidence? We will work it out, I assure you."

Juan stared at him with the helpless expression of someone who has seen all of his plans crumble into dust. "I know my rights," he mumbled. "I have the right to remain silent."

"That," Horatio replied, "would be the first intelligent decision you've made in the last two days."

Meg Donovan marched over to face him, her carefully-styled white hair making her look like the stereotypical idea of a grandmother. An angry grandmother. "I have the right to speak up, though. In 30 years of hearing cases secondhand from Charles, I've always wanted the chance to tell a murderer face to face what I thought of him. This is my golden opportunity." She came so close to Juan that he cringed, shrinking away from her, and her husband firmly held him upright. "You despicable excuse for a human being. Shame on you. Who gave you the right over other people's lives? Who gave you the right to hurt so many families and friends? Did you actually think for one second you would get away with it?"

She was still going strong ten minutes later when backup arrived.


	6. Photo Finish 6

See chapter 1 for disclaimers, rating, etc.

(H/C)

"Blood is certainly stickier than water."

Robert Barnard

(H/C)

Juan was a bit tense but relieved as he faced Adele and Horatio across the interrogation table. Police headquarters wasn't half as frightening as Meg Donovan. Besides, in thinking things over on the ride down, he wasn't yet convinced they could prove anything.

"Yeah, I came into the tack room and saw Pete. But I didn't kill him. My fingerprints aren't anywhere on that hook."

"No, but I'm sure they're on the penicillin bottle, the DMSO, the camera, and the medical information notebook," Horatio replied.

Adele tossed the picture across the table, still trying to decide herself where she had seen the other man. "Who is that?"

Juan barely glanced at it. "I don't remember. Just a conversation, though."

"What was the other picture of?" Horatio wondered. "The one on the last roll of film. Pete had to get something more than you just talking to a man to be killed for it."

"I'm telling you, I didn't kill him."

Eric approached the room where Calleigh and Charles Donovan were watching outside through the window. Charles had tagged along with quiet assumption, wanting to see the end of this one. Meg, satisfied with the completion of her personal mission, stayed behind at the track with her horse, telling him she would meet him later. "How's it going?" Eric asked.

"He's convinced we've got no proof right now," Charles said. He had settled into the investigation like a rider pulling on a comfortable, well-broken-in pair of boots. "Fingerprints back yet?"

"Speed's running them. I came up with something really interesting on the money, though." A standard weapons pat down had revealed that Juan was wearing a money belt. On further search, justified because a money belt could conceal a small knife, they found no weapons but nearly $1000. Horatio had asked Eric to process the money, especially looking for drugs. Eric tapped on the door now, and Horatio and Adele came out to join him.

"What do you have, Eric?"

"No trace of drugs, H, but something even better. Three of the twenties in that money are in the system. The serial numbers trace to that bank robbery last week."

Horatio abruptly came to attention as the puzzle pieces snapped together in his mind. "That second man. If we delete the Marlins baseball cap and add glasses, that's the bank robber from the security camera."

Calleigh pictured it, then nodded. "Probably the glasses were just for the robbery."

"And the cap is a disguise to throw people off right now," Charles said. "Everybody is busy at the track, though, especially in the mornings. I doubt he'd be noticed."

Adele hesitated. "Why would a bank robber come down to Gulfstream Park just to give a groom part of his take?"

"Blackmail?" Eric suggested. "Juan recognized him. We know Juan was from this area. Maybe he was an old friend or something, and Juan was buying his silence."

"It didn't look like an annoyed conversation in the picture, though," Adele put in.

"No," Charles said suddenly. "They were trying to launder the take to make sure they got rid of the bait money." Bait money was a special bundle kept at each teller window and the vault in case of robbery. It looked exactly like all other bundled money, but those bills had been photocopied with two copies kept by the bank, one off site. In a robbery, the teller would be sure to include that bundle, providing bills with recorded serial numbers to catch the thief.

Adele still wasn't quite sure what to make of Charles. "Trying to launder the bait money? How?"

"Betting. Saturday, there will be over 70,000 people at the races, and on-track handle for that one day will be around 15 million cash. Juan probably was going to bet with it. No cashier would ever remember an individual in that crowd, and the bills wouldn't be noticed until later." He frowned slightly. "It's a great setting to launder money, but I'd hate to bet with the money if I were a bank robber. You might lose."

"But Juan," Horatio said, "thought he had discovered the perfect betting system. He didn't think he could lose."

Speed came up at that point. "Juan's fingerprints match prints on the penicillin, the DMSO, the camera, the notebook, and the film box."

"Nice work. You and Eric go back to Gulfstream Park and search Juan's room. Thoroughly search it, I mean, not just the trash this time. You're looking for money. He couldn't keep all of it with him in the money belt. Try under the mattress."

Speed looked dubious. "Who would be stupid enough to put money under the mattress in a dorm?"

"Juan isn't exactly a Mensa candidate," Adele pointed out.

Speed glanced at Juan through the window, then conceded that point. "Right. On our way, H."

The two CSIs headed off, and Horatio turned to Calleigh. "Cal, run a background check on Juan for previous employment, please. We know he's had several jobs and couldn't keep them. See if he ever worked at a bank. The average public wouldn't know about bait money." She nodded and headed for the nearest computer, and Horatio turned to Charles. "So he recognized the robber from the TV news. They had a TV in the dorm. He contacted him and . . ." The line of thought hit a roadblock. "How would he do that? There's a public phone in the dorms, but every time I went by there, the line was four or five people long. Hardly the place to plan your illegal money laundering. And a groom wouldn't be likely to have a cell phone. Not on that pay."

"Maybe he borrowed Randy's," Charles suggested. "Randy has a cell phone because he's always talking to owners all around the country. I've seen him loan it to a groom or someone now and then, just for local calls. Juan could have said he wanted to call family. Eric did say he was from around here."

Horatio smiled at the thought. "If he did, we can get the number from the records. That should lead us to the other man. We can compare the days on the security gate log, too. He would have had to show ID to get in, especially Breeders' Cup week. There can't be too many outsiders through there on both the day the first picture was taken and the day before Pete's death. So Juan contacted his old friend, warned him about bait money mixed in with the other, and offered to launder the bills for a percentage. The thief came down to the track, probably said he was looking for a job to get through the gate, and brought him the money in a few stages to keep it unobtrusive. Pete probably photographed him handing Juan an envelope. Something like that. Only unfortunately for Pete, Juan noticed. They wouldn't want that shot in a book."

Adele was confused. "Why didn't the thief just bet himself Saturday? Why bother sneaking onto the backstretch and giving the money to Juan?"

"The Breeders' Cup is sold out," Charles replied. "Not that you can't bet off track, but you could only find that large a crowd to get lost in on track at Gulfstream on Saturday. The track workers will already be there, but if you wanted a ticket at this stage, you'd have to go to the scalpers."

Calleigh returned at that point. "Juan worked at a bank, among about 20 other jobs. Very briefly."

Horatio thanked her with a smile. "Let's have another discussion with Juan, shall we?" He re-entered the interrogation room. "Juan, I've got good news."

Juan straightened up. "You've realized I'm innocent."

"No," Horatio replied. "But you aren't going to have to worry about holding down a job for a long time. Murder plus bank robbery. I believe your future is secure."

Juan came rocketing out of his seat, and the officer behind him pushed him back down. "I never robbed a bank."

"You're an accessory, though. Right now, CSIs are going back to search your dorm room. We'll find the rest of the money, including the bait money. You had it stashed to bet with Saturday. We'll also get call records from Randy's cell phone. It's just a matter of time before we can prove everything, Juan."

Juan was sweating now. "You can't search my room at the dorm without a warrant," he objected.

Horatio smiled at him with devastating politeness. "We don't need a warrant. We've got full cooperation on this case from the owner of the premises. And that, Juan, would be Gulfstream Park, not you."

Juan's shoulders slumped in defeat. "If he hadn't fallen on that hook, you never would have known."

"You're wrong," Horatio stated. "There were too many other suspicious circumstances, such as the camera not being properly loaded. Nothing obvious to cause the anaphylaxis. This plot had holes you could drive a truck through."

Juan's tone was wounded at life's unfairness to criminals, reminding Horatio briefly of Stewart Otis. "It was supposed to be an accident."

"Murder," Horatio said icily, "is never an accident." He nodded to the officer, who came forward to cuff Juan. Horatio turned away and exited the room.

Just as he closed the door, Valera came up shedding excitement like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. "H, I've got it! Took a while, but if you delete the baseball cap and add glasses, he's . . ."

"The bank robber from last week," Horatio replied. "Thank you, Valera. Nice work. Come on, Cal, Charles, let's go catch a bank robber."

Valera stood staring after them. Finally, she turned away and spoke with annoyed admiration too softly for anyone around to hear. "Sometimes, I hate that man."

(H/C)

Randy had indeed loaned his cell phone to Juan, and records gave them both a number and a familiar name. Jose Delgado, brother to Juan Delgado. His name also appeared on the security gate log three times that week. Speed and Eric found close to $8,000 hidden in Juan's dorm room under the mattress. So Horatio, Calleigh, Charles, Adele, and two officers headed over to Jose Delgado's cheap apartment to pick him up, with Charles carefully staying behind the others. Calleigh and Horatio waited with one officer at the fire escape as the others went to the front. "After all," Horatio reminded them, "he is Juan's brother. He might bolt, too."

The knock of authority could be heard even on the fire escape, followed by the command, "Miami-Dade Police! Open up!"

Jose bolted, running out the back door and straight into Horatio's gun. He froze, then slowly raised his hands, his dark features going as pale as they could. "Back inside," Horatio ordered, and Jose backed away into the apartment.

Adele read him his rights as one of the officers cuffed him. "Jose Delgado, you're under arrest for bank robbery."

"However," Horatio put in, "your brother Juan is under arrest for murder. You might cut a deal with the DA yourself for a lighter sentence if you testify against him."

Jose glanced around the officers. "You want me to rat on my brother?"

"Your choice, but it would be a good idea," Charles stated. "I'm sure he'll be returning the favor, too, as soon as he gets down to thinking of it."

Horatio took over smoothly. "So, Jose, having your rights and your upcoming trial in mind, do you want to tell us anything?"

Jose broke down. Just a weak, small-time criminal, Calleigh thought in disgust. A weak, small-time criminal whose actions had led to the death of another human being. "I swear, I didn't have anything to do with that man's death. That was Juan. He called me the day after the robbery and said that some of the bills would be marked, but he could switch them on Saturday. I took it down in envelopes. But I never killed anybody. What I did was harmless."

Horatio wanted to hit him but held back with his usual restraint. "Harmless? You caused Pete Carter's death, Jose, whether you did it yourself or not. It was your crime that started all of this. Think about that while you're in prison, Jose. You are responsible for a murder."

Jose looked at him sullenly. "All of that money banks have. They even have insurance. They could have spared some of it." He really looked nothing like his brother, but at that moment, the resemblance was strong.

Horatio gave up. He could catch the criminals, but many of them would never see the fault in their actions. Prisons were full of people who honestly thought they were there unjustly. "Take him away," he stated, and the officers escorted Jose out the door to the waiting police car.

"What a family," Calleigh said. The more she saw of the world, the less she thought her parents had been the world's worst. Bad, yes, but they had lots of competition for the title.

Horatio read her mind and smiled at her. "There are good families, Cal. Like ours." She thought of life with this man and with Rosalind and smiled back at him.

"Which reminds me," Charles said, "would you two like to join us on Saturday? The owners get box seats, and Meg and I have plenty of room in our box with just the two of us."

Horatio glanced at Calleigh, who nodded. "We'd love to. If you have room for one more, I'd like to bring along a friend. She has a ticket, she said, but it was just general admission."

"No problem. Bring her along." They started toward the door themselves. "Thank you for letting me revisit my past today, Horatio. I miss this job sometimes. Hard but worthwhile."

Calleigh nodded. "We know exactly what you mean. At least the problems are solved for the moment."

"That's as much as we can ask for, I'm afraid," Horatio stated, but thinking of problems, his thoughts turned to that morning and to Speed. He hoped that all problems for his team would soon be solved. For the moment, at least.

(H/C)

Speed opened the door to his apartment that night to the smell of something cooking. In fact, something burning. Breeze was in the kitchen, and that fact startled him even more than her presence after the fight did. "You're cooking? I didn't know you could cook."

She opened the oven and removed a pan. "I can't."

"Then what . . ."

She slammed the pan of what might have with imagination been called cookies onto the top of the stove, then faced him with a look of dead-set stubbornness. "I'm totally failing at something. Since you obviously base your ego on being better at stuff than me, I'm showing you something I can't do. Don't you feel better now?"

"Bad choice, Breeze. I can't cook either. You probably beat me at that, too."

She waved a hand at the pan of alleged cookies, presenting the evidence to him. "You couldn't possibly be a worse cook than I am."

"Believe me, I could. You've never tasted my cookies. They are cookies, aren't they?"

"Yes, they're cookies. Okay, make yours, and we'll compare. They can't be worse than this. My little brother wouldn't even eat my cookies when we were growing up."

Speed started gathering ingredients and slamming them together in a bowl. "Breeze, this is stupid."

"I know that. It's obviously a big issue to you, though, so go ahead and make yours. If you want to beat me at something, this is your golden opportunity."

He reached for the mixer. "Wait a minute. After I make mine and we taste them, how do I know you won't just say mine are better to prove your point?"

They stared at each other for a minute. "Jury trial," Breeze said finally. "The verdict will come from a jury of our peers."

Speed put his pan in the oven and shut the door. "What peers? Eric would just laugh at us, Calleigh would tell us we were both stupid, and Horatio . . . I don't even want to think of what H would do. He'd start analyzing us instead of the cookies. Nobody's going to give us an honest opinion here."

"Kids," Breeze suggested. "Kids will give you an honest opinion on anything. Let's go give them to Alexx's kids."

Speed considered it. "Deal. Panel of two judges, no appeals." She extended her hand to him, and he solemnly shook it. They then both puttered around the kitchen, getting in each other's way but not speaking, until Speed's cookies were done. The more Speed thought about it, the more stupid he felt, but he wasn't about to be the first one to apologize with her acting this way.

Before long, two motorcycles, with two foil-covered plates in the bags, were headed across Miami, one yellow Ducati and one bike with a personalized plate of QKSLVR. Breeze ostentatiously held back to avoid arriving at Alexx's ahead of him because her bike was faster. Together, they stalked up the sidewalk to the door of the house and rang the bell.

Alexx opened the door and looked from one to the other of them, puzzled. "Tim? Breeze? What's going on?"

"We need to see your kids for a minute," Breeze stated.

Alexx studied them, noticing the tension and how they were deliberately not looking at each other. "What happened?"

"Nothing; we just need to see the kids. Are you going to let us in?" Speed asked.

She stepped back and swung the door wide. "Janie! Bryan! Somebody to see you." She stayed right there herself as the children scampered into the room.

"Hi, kids," Breeze said. She took the foil off her plate. "Want a cookie?"

"Have some of mine, too," Speed said, glaring at her. She even unwrapped her cookie plate faster than he did.

Two small hands came out, and the kids began to munch. Janie reacted first. Her face screwed up, and she actually spit the mouthful out. "Gross! Who made that? That's the worst cookie I've ever tasted."

Bryan pried his own bite out of his mouth and stuck it back on the edge of Speed's plate. "Can't be worse than this one. This is disgusting."

"Janie! Bryan! Mind your manners, now," Alexx said firmly, but the kids were looking at each other curiously. They exchanged partly-eaten cookies, and each tried the other one.

"Incredible," said Bryan.

"They're different, but they're both gross," Janie put in. She looked from Speed to Breeze. "Did you guys make these? If you did, you need lessons. They're both pathetic."

"Janie!" Alexx's voice reached her that time, and she looked down.

"I'm sorry," she said meekly.

Bryan shook his head. "Really, guys, I think you're both awful. You should just forget about it. Want one of my Mom's? She knows how to cook."

"Bryan!" Alexx was mortified at this whole conversation.

Speed and Breeze looked at each other. Speed spoke first. "It's okay, Alexx. We wanted an honest opinion, and we got one." He set his plate down on a table. "Keep these, kids."

"Yuck!" Janie replied.

"We don't want them!" Bryan protested.

Breeze set her plate down alongside the other. "Throw them away then, would you, Alexx? Come on, Tim."

"Thanks, Alexx," Speed stated as they headed for the door.

The ME looked from the kids to the cookies to her departing guests. "Anytime."

Once outside, Speed and Breeze walked down the sidewalk in silence. They got to the bikes before the first crack split the wall. Breeze snickered. Speed was grinning himself, and suddenly, they were both laughing so hard they couldn't even get on their bikes.

"That's the official verdict," Breeze gasped, having a hard time speaking. "We're both pathetic."

"Yep," Speed agreed. "No appeals, either, remember? Maybe we should just forget about it." He hadn't laughed this hard in months.

They apologized simultaneously.


	7. Photo Finish 7

A/N: Here's the finale. Warning: This chapter contains nothing but horses and fluff. Lots of horses and fluff. Extremely detailed horses and fluff. You have been warned. Those of you who didn't like this story that much will like this chapter even less. I have carefully split it off so that if you couldn't care less about horses, you can simply skip to the preview at the end knowing that the case is over. I guarantee the preview to be free of horses or fluff. Thanks especially to my loyal and prompt reviewer who carried me through a few discouraging intervals of silence on this story and reminded me that I am not the only person out there enjoying the horse plot. Hope you enjoy this last chapter, Katarina.

I have shamelessly imported horses from real Breeders' Cups and put them in my fictitious one. Some were picked for the names, some for their uniqueness like Dayjur, and one entire race, the 2003 Breeders' Cup Turf, was transplanted from Santa Anita, California, to Gulfstream Park just because it was such a spectacular race that I couldn't resist. My apologies to my two actual favorite Breeders' Cup winners, Personal Ensign and Alysheba, for leaving them out of the fun. Had I not needed their two races for my story line, I would have included them, especially Personal Ensign, who won the most exciting race I have ever seen in the 1988 BC Distaff. I have plenty of company among experts in that opinion of that race, too. Remember, the key to this story throughout is that named horses, except for Silver Lining and Valentine, are real. No placings in reality have been disturbed for named horses; if I say they won, they won. Also, the facts about the 2001 Breeders' Cup at Belmont Park on Long Island a month after 09/11 are accurate.

Final Warning: Extreme Horsiness Ahead.

(H/C)

"And the hooves of the horses as they run shake the crumbling field."

Virgil (Publius Virgilius Maro)

(H/C)

Horatio, Calleigh, Rosalind, and Lisa met the Donovans at the front gate of Gulfstream Park on Saturday. The weather showcased Florida's finest – sunshine, warm temperatures, and a playful breeze off the ocean. The line at the gate extended several hundred yards, but the Donovans, with owners' passes, took the group through a special VIP gate at the side. Security guards searched the bags thoroughly before passing them through, and each person, even Rosalind, received a colored wrist band similar to those worn in hospitals. The color code would clearly label the areas they were authorized to enter throughout the day.

The owners' boxes were situated almost at the finish line but high enough to provide a clear view across the infield lake to the far side of the track. Lisa eyed the masses down below filing into the metal bleacher seats at the lower levels of the grandstand and smiled at Charles and Meg. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, dear," Meg replied. She twirled around in a circle, making her white hair fly in the speed of her turn. "I can't believe we're actually here watching our horse run in the Breeders' Cup." A kid at Christmas couldn't have had brighter eyes.

Charles kissed her. "Happy birthday, darling."

"Oh, is today your birthday?" Calleigh asked.

"Not officially," Charles replied. "I gave her our girl as a birthday present. Asked her what she wanted, and she said she'd wanted a horse since she was six, and now that she was over 70, she thought it was high time." Lisa winced in sympathy at the thought of that many horseless years.

Rosalind was as wide-eyed as Meg, looking all around at the track, the people, the lake, and the gently-waving palm trees. "Oooooo!" she exclaimed finally, cracking them all up.

"Wait till you see the horses, Angel," Horatio told her.

Meg turned her excitement to Lisa. "Horatio said you were a horse person."

Lisa nodded. "Dressage, not racing, but I follow racing as a fan."

"What chance do you think my baby has today?"

Lisa hesitated. Charles laughed. "Go ahead and be honest. We agree with you, actually. We never dreamed we'd be here. Not on the money we spent."

"You might steal the race, if you get lucky," Lisa said.

Meg nodded, the excitement refusing to dim. "It happens. We're hoping it will today."

Calleigh frowned. "How do you steal a race?"

Charles took over. "Horses can't run full speed the whole race, not the longer ones, anyway. So they go faster in parts of them than others. They have different running styles. The come-from-behind horses start out slowly and then run full speed the last little bit and hope to pass everyone. The mid-pack horses stay just off the lead and then pounce when they get an opportunity."

"Silver Lining is a mid-pack horse," Lisa told Horatio and Calleigh.

Meg jumped in. "Then, the front runners like to go all the way on the lead. Trouble is, in the longer races, they usually get tired and are passed. Especially if you get two or three front runners in a race. They burn each other out and set it up for the come-from-behind horses. Sometimes, though, if you have a horse who's the only front runner in the race, the jockey can bolt out of the starting gate like it's just a short sprint, and all the other jockeys think the horse will burn out before the end. But the jockey only really lets the horse run a little bit, then slows the race down without being obvious. So while the other jockeys think he's out there blazing along, he's really saving his horse for the end. When they finally do come running, the front horse has saved enough to maybe hold them off. That's called stealing a race, because you have to trick all the other riders to do it."

Horatio grinned. "Stealing a race worth a couple of million would be a felony, wouldn't it?"

"In front of 70,000 witnesses, no less. Still, I'm retired, and you're off duty," Charles pointed out.

Calleigh was working it out. "So your horse is the only front runner in her race?"

"Right." Meg twisted her program in anticipation. "She's a long shot, too, so the other riders will be more likely to dismiss her as no threat. It is hard to steal a race, though. You have to catch the other riders not paying attention to you. Jockeys have mental stopwatches – most of the top ones can tell you how fast the horses in the race are going within a fifth of a second or so. But if they're not paying attention to your horse, it can happen."

"Well," Horatio said, "your plotting of your crime seems pretty thorough, and I wish you success with its implementation." Meg giggled like a schoolgirl.

"Speaking of crime," said Charles, "how's our case going? All the loose ends tied up?"

Horatio's smile disintegrated as real crimes replaced figurative ones. "Jose and Juan are fingering each other for everything. The DA will love this case. The sad part is, it really was bad luck in a way that Pete died. Juan didn't research DMSO. Everybody at the track knows that it jumps straight through skin, but he just assumed that it would carry anything else along with it. Actually, it only works on some things. Unfortunately for Pete, penicillin happened to be one of them." They were all silent for a moment.

"He is going to have his book published, though," Calleigh said. "We've turned over the pictures to his family, except for that one. Along with the other pictures he'd sent back home, they'll still make a nice book."

"He died happy." Horatio had thought of that the night after the murder, watching the still-almost-full moon. "The security guard who was the last person to talk to him said he was thrilled about his last picture. It got four exclamation marks in the log. Unfortunately, that one was lost, but Pete was probably still thinking about it when he got up that morning."

The loudspeaker crackled into life, announcing any late changes of information from the program. Meg glanced at her watch. "Not much longer until we can go meet Randy in the paddock. I'm so glad our girl is in the first Breeders' Cup race. I couldn't stand waiting all day."

"You're not going onto the backstretch today, then?" Calleigh asked.

Charles shook his head. "Security is very tight today."

Horatio eyed a uniformed officer standing at the nearest staircase. "I was impressed with how thoroughly they searched us at the gates."

"People are here from all over the world," Lisa said. "This ranks as a nice target, according to Homeland Security. Lots of people in one spot, live media, many different nations represented."

"I'll never forget Belmont Park in 2001," Meg stated. "We didn't have a horse running then, but we live in New York. We went just to watch. It was barely a month after 9/11, and that was the first international sports event held in the city after the attacks. Belmont is actually in New York; you can see the Manhattan skyline from the grandstand. Breeders' Cup talked about going to an alternate site, and the mayor asked them not to. The event meant millions in income to the host city, and New York had had so many things cancelled. He begged them to hold it there anyway. Some people said that the other countries wouldn't come, but they all flew in, just as usual."

Charles took over. "They made the whole day a tribute. Had a fireman sing the national anthem. Many of the owners donated a percentage of their winnings that day to the 9/11 charities. One announced that he would give 100 percent, and he had one winner and a couple of seconds. It was several million, and he donated it all. They had SWAT teams in the grandstands and snipers on the roof, and the Goodyear Blimp couldn't come because the airspace was still too restricted. But the event went on in spite of everything. A lot of people who had been going to travel in gave up their tickets, but the people from the city came in droves. It set an attendance record. They loved it."

Calleigh understood perfectly. "To hell with the terrorists."

"Exactly." Charles glanced at his watch. "Let's head down to the paddock. The horses will be getting there soon to be saddled."

Randy was waiting in the paddock, along with the Donovans' horse and her groom. He looked fairly relaxed at the moment, able to enjoy it because he wasn't really expecting anything from this one. Horatio wondered what he would look like before the Classic, when he saddled Silver Lining with the weight of his mother's debts as well as the tack. "Enjoying yourselves so far?"

"Ooooooo!!!!" Rosalind replied, looking around at the horses, who each stood in individual open stalls to get saddled.

"See the horses?" Horatio held her up slightly for a better view. "You can't ride these, I'm afraid. We'll stay back."

"You don't really want to see them anyway, Rosalind," Calleigh put in. "They might think your hair was hay."

Horatio laughed again remembering it. "Just goes to show that the horse had excellent taste."

Calleigh reflexively ran her hands through her hair again, although it was shampooed clean many times over. "Be glad you weren't within reach. He would have thought you were a walking carrot."

Lisa was eying the mare. "She's got dapples," she said suddenly.

Randy stepped to the side for another look himself. "I noticed that this morning. Just came up since yesterday, too."

Horatio and Calleigh moved around slightly. The mare did indeed have slightly darker circles on her blood bay coat. "What does that mean?"

"It means she's absolutely feeling wonderful physically," Charles said. "Dapples are a great sign."

"Silver Lining ought to be an easy winner then," Horatio stated, and Randy tensed up slightly, thinking of the later race.

Lisa grinned at him. "Grays don't count. For a solid horse to get dapples, though, is great. Are you going to bet on her?"

Meg shook her head. "I never bet on my own horse. Just a superstition, but the first time I didn't bet on her is the first time she really did win. I'm afraid to break the string."

The valets arrived in the paddocks with each jockey's saddle after the jockeys had weighed in back in the jockeys' room. Randy took the saddle and the special adjustable pad with lead weights which each horse carried to equalize the weight difference in the riders. He put the saddle cloth on, then the weight pad, and started saddling the mare, and she shifted restlessly in anticipation. Meg stepped to the front of the horse, and the mare pricked her ears, obviously recognizing her owner. Meg grabbed the bridle straps on either side and planted a kiss on the end of the white blaze, leaving a perfect lipstick mark. "For luck," she explained. "I always send her out to race with a kiss."

"You're afraid to break the string," Calleigh finished, and Charles nodded. The mare, obviously used to this treatment, took it without objection. Randy finished saddling her and carefully stretched each front leg forward to make sure there were no wrinkles in the skin caught under the girth.

The jockeys arrived in the paddock in a shimmering undersized rainbow of silks that divided with rays going to the individual horses. Charles shook hands with their jockey, and Meg did the same, although Calleigh could tell she thought of kissing him. "Safe trip," she said, and the jockey nodded, then turned to the trainer.

Randy patted the mare. "She's as good as she's ever been. If you can steal it, do, and if you can't, she'll hold on as long as she can." The jockey nodded. He patted the mare's neck himself and whistled slightly through his teeth, and she turned her head around to bump him with her nose.

"Riders up!" The command of the paddock judge rang out, and Randy gave the jockey a leg up. The groom led the mare and rider out into their position in the line of horses circling the paddock, each horse trailed by its connections. Twice around, and the horses headed into the tunnel that ran under the grandstand and emerged onto the track.

Meg was vibrating like a hummingbird as they left the mare at the edge of the track and found their box again. "I can't believe this is actually happening," she repeated. Calleigh looked at her with fond amusement and hoped that she still had that much enthusiasm and life herself at 76 after decades of first-hand experience of too many victims, criminals, trials, and cases.

Randy pointed out the fractional time slots on the massive electronic tote board in the infield. "Watch the times. They show the fractions as the race is run. If we can get the second quarter mile several seconds slower than the first one, she's got a good chance."

Everyone but Horatio had binoculars; Horatio had Rosalind. The races were different lengths, and this one, a mile and an eighth on a one-mile track, started up the homestretch from them. The horses would pass the finish line twice. All the binoculars focused on the starting gate up the stretch as the horses loaded in one by one, and an almost reverent hush fell over the crowd as the last horse loaded. The starter, standing about 30 feet up the track from the gate, watched the shifting hooves, checking that the horses were all standing evenly, waiting for a restless one to settle. Finally, at the split second of stillness, he pushed the button he held that released the electromagnets holding the starting gate doors closed. With the current cut, the doors sprang open, and the horses launched from stillness to full flight with a stunning acceleration. Leading them all was the white-blazed face, the jockey shouting encouragement as the Donovans' mare skipped away from the field, starting like the race was only half as long as it was. The other jockeys glanced at her rider's efforts and held back, not following a pace that would be suicide in a race this long.

The horses came thundering by the finish line the first time, the mare leading already by four lengths. Horatio hadn't realized the full assault on the senses of a herd of running horses. The rumbling thunder from the hooves rolled up over the grandstand, and he was sure the people down by the rail on the bottom level could actually feel the ground shake. The jockeys' silks shifted like a kaleidoscope as they jostled for position in the field. Rosalind's eyes were saucers. "OOOOOOO!!!!" she said, and her comment was almost lost in the general murmur of excitement that swept over the crowd.

Randy's eyes were glued to the horse, but as she galloped past the first marked pole, he glanced briefly at the tote board. "23 seconds," he noted. "Pretty quick for her." All eyes returned to the race where the mare still held a clear lead. Was the thunder a bit less intense, or was the distance just greater as the horses ran onto the far side of the track? For a moment, Horatio thought the gap between her and the field was narrowing, but then it stabilized. The jockey was still bent low, and it looked like he was still urging his mount, as he had from the beginning.

The horses passed the half-mile marker, and they looked at the timer again. Meg jumped straight up. "48 seconds! Come on, girl, hang in there!" The second quarter-mile had been run several seconds slower than the first quarter-mile. The jockey continued skillfully gearing her down while still trying to look like he was going full out. The jockeys on the contenders behind him were watching each other. They hadn't noticed. Yet. The third quarter-mile also went in 25 seconds.

The horses rounded the far turn and entered the homestretch, and suddenly, the jockey released the stranglehold on the reins and starting calling to the mare in earnest. From here on, it would be up to her. He had done what he could. She skipped away, widening the lead briefly, and then it diminished again. Behind her, the other horses were coming, the contenders shooting out of the pack like arrows, aiming to catch the bay leader. Her stride was shortening; even Horatio and Calleigh could see it. Two other horses were gaining with every step, running her down, but when the horses flashed by the finish line the second time, the white nose sealed with lipstick was still a determined foot in front. One stride later, she had lost it. One stride later, it didn't matter.

Meg crumpled her program between her excited fingers. "Pinch me!" she demanded, turning to Charles.

He kissed her instead, ignoring the crowd, ignoring the approaching media cameras set up near the owners' boxes. "Happy birthday, my dear."

Randy was staring at the finish line with the dazed look of someone who has just found $102,000 lying in a parking lot. Horatio touched him gently on the arm, and Randy looked back at him. "That's a start, Randy."

A weak smile set in tentatively over the shock. "Not enough, but it is a start."

The Donovans broke apart. "What are we waiting for?" Meg demanded. "Let's go to the winner's circle! I want to see my girl."

Randy fell back into professional mode. "Come on. They'll wait for us, but they don't like to take too long. It is unofficial, you know, but I don't see any reason why it wouldn't hold up." The group started down the staircase toward the track.

"Unofficial?" Calleigh was puzzled. The mare had finished in front; how much more official did a race need to be?

"The stewards review every race," Lisa said. "They have films from all angles, and they make sure there wasn't interference. Races are competitive, but there's a limit. Any of the jockeys can claim foul, too. A win doesn't count and no bets are paid until the stewards say so."

"They can change the order?" Calleigh asked, imagining winning a race and then losing it again in just a few minutes. She preferred ballistics, where an answer couldn't be inverted by a panel after she had done her analysis.

"Not often, but yes, they do. It's not just the jockeys getting too competitive. Horses do strange things sometimes. They might swerve or jump, and there's nothing the jockey could do about it."

The group arrived at the winner's circle to survey an impressive-looking array of trophies on a stand. The mare came trotting back up the track to join them. She was drooping slightly, breathing heavily, but her ears were up, playfully twisting to catch the crowd's cheers. She knew she had won.

"Oooooo!!!" Rosalind reached out toward her, and Horatio stepped back.

"No, Angel, they aren't toys. This isn't Valentine."

"Oh, let her touch her," Meg urged. "My girl loves attention, and she's too tired to have much jump left in her, anyway." Horatio cautiously edged up, and Rosalind reached out to pat the sweaty neck.

"Keep her hair clear," Calleigh warned.

Meg, not caring if the horse ate her hair, planted a twin kiss along her first one on the blaze. "Good girl! I'll buy you a 25-pound bag of carrots, I swear."

At that moment, the official sign lit up on the tote board, and the crowd doubled its roar. A track representative came up with the blanket of flowers to drape over the winning horse's neck, and the Donovans posed with their horse for the official picture. Following that, the mare was unsaddled and led back toward the barn to be cooled off, and Charles and Meg accepted their trophy in a brief ceremony. They then returned to their box, still dazed, and the day continued. Randy had left them, heading back to the barn to try not to worry over Silver Lining.

"What next?" Charles returned to firm ground first.

Horatio glanced at the program. "Juvenile Fillies. Who do you like, Lisa?"

Lisa shook her head. "Hard to say. These are just 2-year-olds in this next one. They're so young and new to this, they're hard to handicap."

Meg glanced at the program. "Epitome."

Charles shook his head. "30 to 1. They don't think she has much of a chance."

"No, it's got to be Epitome. She goes with this day. Perfect name."

Calleigh laughed. "You pick horses by the name?"

"There are a lot of stupider systems around here, my dear." Meg was still floating. "It'll be Epitome; you'll see."

It was Epitome, winning by a nose, almost a repeat of the first race with a different outcome as the challenging horse did catch the leader right at the wire. None of the group had actually bet on her, and none of them cared. As Charles pointed out, if they didn't bet, they couldn't lose their money.

"Your turn, Cal," Horatio said. "Pick a horse in the next race. Who wins?"

Calleigh started studying the field in the program for the next race, then smiled halfway down the list. There was no need to go any farther. "Six Perfections."

Horatio read her thoughts and was touched beyond words. They shared a private smile across their daughter's head.

"It can be wonderful, can't it?" Meg said, understanding.

Calleigh nodded. "I couldn't ask for anything more. I can't speak for the horse, but Six Perfections fits my life fine at the moment."

"The horse actually has a chance," Lisa said. "She's from France, and she's raced really well in Europe this year."

"Maybe everybody should pick horses by name," Meg suggested.

Lisa suddenly laughed. "I heard a story about the 2002 Kentucky Derby. A bettor who thought he had the perfect system went to his OTB parlor to bet on the race, and a friend went along. The friend had never placed a bet in his life, but he picked out War Emblem and Proud Citizen from the program because they had good patriotic names, he said. He was going to bet $10 on an exacta, picking them to finish first and second. That was the first Derby after 9/11, and he thought a patriotic-named horse was destined to win. So the professional tried to explain to him how War Emblem and Proud Citizen had no chance at all, either one of them. Spent 20 minutes trying to talk him out of it and explaining his scientific system. He bet his system based on past performance, and his friend bet on patriotic names." Lisa paused for effect. "The War Emblem-Proud Citizen exacta that year paid $1300 on a $1 bet. So the friend was cashing in while his expert companion lost every cent."

Meg smiled. "I just thought of something else. The Mile isn't gender-restricted like our girl's race was. Six Perfections is a mare, and she'll be running against the boys here.

Calleigh loved it. "See, Six Perfections has got to win."

Six Perfections was a gorgeous black mare with a long white blaze. She took a violent dislike to the starting gate and delayed the race several minutes while she refused to load, but once the race started, she was all business, working her way up through the pack and winning with authority.

"Your turn," Meg said to Lisa. The next race was the Sprint, the shortest race, an all-out dash for six-eighths of a mile.

Lisa hesitated. "I think I'll break the system. There really is a horse in here I like but not for the name. Dayjur."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Isn't he an English horse? Usually, the Americans are better at the sprints."

"I know, but this horse is brilliant. If his form transfers over here, I think he's got a good chance."

Dayjur was indeed brilliant. The sprint didn't even last an entire circuit of the track, starting on the far side and finishing in front of the grandstand, and as the horses came flying down the homestretch, Dayjur on the outside was in command, holding a consistent lead over a little mare on the inside, Safely Kept. It stayed that way almost all the way down the stretch until, right before the wire, Dayjur's ears suddenly snapped up, and in the next second, he jumped, going up instead of forward, as if he had seen an invisible fence in his path. He landed, took a few strides, and jumped again, and Safely Kept, running steadily along the inside, closed the gap and beat him by a nose.

Lisa shook her head, laughing. "The shadows. He jumped the shadows from the grandstand."

"Horses are unpredictable at times," Charles repeated.

"Ooooo!!!" Rosalind agreed.

"What will the stewards do with that?" Horatio asked.

Lisa shrugged. "Their call, not mine, but he was on the outside and clear, and he didn't interfere with anybody but himself. If he'd pulled that stunt in the middle of the field, he would have been disqualified for sure." The stewards apparently agreed, and Dayjur was allowed to stay in second place. "So much for the scientific system," Lisa continued. "Somebody else pick."

"Horatio." He saw the challenge in Calleigh's eyes, and he passed Rosalind to her and opened his program.

"The Filly and Mare Turf. These are all girls, then?"

"Right," Meg said. "And turf means it's run on the grass track, not the dirt."

Horatio considered the entrants. "Perfect Sting. The only horse for a CSI to pick, and it sort of goes along with Six Perfections." Charles, the ex-FBI man, nodded. Perfect Sting duly won the race fairly easily.

"Maybe we should be betting," Lisa said. "We've got four winners and one second out of five. Pick one, Charles."

"Gilded Time," he said, glancing at the program.

"No fair," Meg protested. "He's the favorite. You're going scientific."

Charles gave her a dazzling smile. "Actually, my dear, I hadn't even noticed the odds. Fair enough?" He kissed her again, quickly. "Happy birthday."

Gilded Time did win the next race, but the fun part turned out to be that his owner was in the next box to theirs, allowing them front-row tickets to see a grown man in an expensive business suit jump up and down, scream, and cry without the least shame over it as his colt pounded down the homestretch well in front.

That reminded Calleigh of Silver Lining, and she brought it up during the gap before the next race. "Is Silver Lining's owner here?"

A shadow suddenly dropped briefly across the day for Charles, Meg, and Lisa as they simultaneously shook their heads. "He's in a hospital," Lisa said. "He's dying of cancer."

"All the money he could ever want, and it can't buy health," Charles stated. "Mr. Silverman's one of the nicest rich people you could ever want to know. He's given much more to charity than I've earned in my lifetime, and he's totally down to earth. I've met him a few times."

"Mr. Silverman," Horatio repeated thoughtfully. "Is that where the name came from? Silver Lining?"

"Not really," Charles said. "Randy bought Silver Lining at the yearling auctions two years ago. He wasn't named yet. Most of the yearlings at the auctions aren't, to let their new owners name them. Mr. Silverman picked out the horse on bloodlines from the catalogue, and Randy went to bid for him. All the old man said was that he couldn't come along to the auction, but Randy had a blank check. Turns out, he was going to the doctor that day for tests. Randy called him that night to say he'd gotten the colt, and Mr. Silverman said, 'Well, we'll name him Silver Lining, because there's something good that came out of this day. If what the doctors said today is right, though, I'll never live to see him run.' They gave him six months to live, and he's gone four times over that. First, he wanted to see the colt run. Then, they thought he'd win the Derby. Then, after he got hurt, Randy said he might still make the Breeders' Cup. And Mr. Silverman keeps on living, says he can't die without seeing that. His family is long gone. That horse has kept him alive, Horatio."

Lisa misread Horatio's thoughtful expression. "It's happened before, Horatio. Science can't explain it, but there are a lot of stories like that."

"Oh, I believe you. All the medicine in the world isn't any stronger than a person's will to live. Call it a family, a cause, or a horse, I know it can work wonders."

The announcer broke into their thoughts. "The horses are coming onto the track for the Breeders' Cup Turf."

"We haven't picked a horse," Meg realized.

They quickly glanced at the program, and Horatio's eyes stopped at one. The Tin Man. His gaze went distant, and Calleigh saw it and followed it to the cause. She put an arm around him. "You want to pick that one?"

Horatio shook his head slowly. "He won't win. He'll try, but he'll fall short."

Meg stepped in with her sensitive enthusiasm, even though she didn't understand the cause of the shadow, shaking Horatio out of the mood by pretending it didn't exist. "Let me pick, then. High Chaparral. Now there's a name for a horse."

"He's from Ireland," Lisa said. "Nice horse but hasn't had the best luck this year." They agreed on High Chaparral and focused their binoculars on the action. The horses were just loading into the gate.

The Turf was the longest race at a mile and a half, and the horses waltzed out of the gate in the opposite of the first race. No one wanted the lead; no one was trying to steal it. All the running would come in the later stages here. The first quarter-mile went in a slow 25 seconds. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the race quickened, each quarter rolling by faster than the one before. The Tin Man was second, then, as they turned into the homestretch, was first, but the others were coming in a mass assault. The Tin Man faltered as Horatio had predicted, not giving up but simply not having enough to stay in front. Falbrav, a champion from England, took the lead on the inside, and in the middle of the track, High Chaparral, a bay with a crooked blaze, dug in. Falbrav fought back. High Chaparral was relentless. The crowd was already screaming at the stretch duel and suddenly doubled in volume as the third participant became apparent. On the far outside, the come-from-behind horse from America, Johar, was flying, passing horses with every stride, coming from dead last earlier in the race, moving faster than any of the others. The distance seemed to be running out on him, though. Falbrav hung tough, but High Chaparral gritted his way past him slowly, opening a margin of inches. On the outside, Johar surged up, and the three horses hit the wire in a knot, so close that one blanket would have covered them.

The crowd's screams died into a questioning murmur. Pulling up, the jockeys could be seen talking to each other in mutual confusion. Even they didn't know who had won. The familiar slot on the tote board, much-used that day, lit up again: Photo Finish.

Charles turned to Lisa. "What do you think?"

She shook her head. "Falbrav was third. I couldn't split the other two."

Horatio glanced at the board where the order of finish was displayed. The top three slots were vacant, and as he watched, Falbrav's number filled the third blank. The first two remained dark. He glanced down at his program, matching numbers to horses. The Tin Man had finished fourth.

High Chaparral and Johar came back to the front of the stands and circled there. No one could enter the winner's circle until it was official, but they didn't even know the unofficial winner yet. The track replayed the finish on the large screen in the infield, freezing it at the wire. Every time they replayed it, the crowd gasped. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The two horses still circled, and their connections milled around with them. Johar's trainer placed both hands together and appealed to the heavens. Fifteen minutes.

Lisa shook her head. "It shouldn't take this long. It never takes this long. Not with all the technology they've got nowadays."

"This one picture is worth millions," Meg pointed out. "They'll be careful."

"This is beyond being careful," Lisa insisted.

Charles shook his head. "Poor Randy. The Classic is next, and this is going to delay it. They can't go on until they have the ceremony on this race. A lot of the jockeys ride in all the races, too. These two will have to run back and change silks before they can get to the paddock for the next one."

Horatio and Calleigh looked at each other, imagining poor Randy twisted into even further knots. A throaty roar from the crowd drew their eyes back to the tote board, where an almost-never-used slot had lit up. Dead Heat.

Calleigh stared at it. A tie. "What happens to the money?"

"They add first and second place and divide it evenly," Lisa said. "That's incredible. I've never actually seen one before. This was the longest race of the day, too. It's the last place you'd expect a dead heat."

"Can we go down to the paddock before the next one?" Horatio asked. Randy had to be climbing the walls by now.

"No," Charles said. "We only had passes for the race our horse was in. Randy's going to watch it with us, though, since Mr. Silverman can't be here. He'll come join us in a few minutes, after he saddles the horse."

Meg studied the program. "I guess we all know who we're picking in this one."

Lisa grinned. "He qualifies on both counts. Great name, and he's certainly not the favorite."

Horatio glanced at the tote board, where the odds for the next race had filled in as the double winner's circle ceremony ended. "26 to 1."

"Think we should bet?" Charles asked.

Calleigh shook her head. "No, let's not jinx him." She didn't mention the further reason. The Donovans knew nothing of Randy's troubles, but Horatio, meeting her eyes, read the thought perfectly. Silver Lining was already racing under the weight of his owner's life, his trainer's mother's home, and his groom's family. Far too much was at stake here without their money.

Randy came up the stairs to join them eventually as the horses stepped onto the track. He looked pale and strained, and Meg gave him a concerned pat on the arm. "Are you okay, dear?"

"Fine," he said. "Just nerves. It's a big race." He had been calm as long as he was with the horse, not wanting him to sense tension. Now, though, he wasn't sure he could even last the next few minutes without passing out before the finish. Calleigh transferred Rosalind back to Horatio and put one hand on Randy's back, a gentle connection behind the Donovans, almost unnoticeable. Just the warm contact of someone who knew everything he was going through. It did help. Below, the post parade was winding along in front of the stands. Silver Lining was on his toes, prancing, neck arched, as the announcer introduced him as the 2-year-old champion who hadn't won a single race this year.

"And thanks for reminding us of that," Charles muttered.

"Maybe all the other jockeys will dismiss him, like your horse," Calleigh suggested.

Lisa shook her head. "He was the champion, and they know what he can do on his day. They'll keep an eye on him. He won't steal this race."

"He won't be on the lead anyway," Randy stated. "He'll be a few back, fourth or fifth, then make his run at the far turn."

The horses completed their warm-ups and walked back to the starting gate, which was parked at the head of the homestretch. The race was a mile and a quarter, and again, the horses would pass the finish line twice.

Horatio, hampered by Rosalind, didn't quite see what happened at the start, but he heard Randy and Lisa groan in unison, their fingers tightening on their binoculars. "What is it?"

Lisa spoke. Randy couldn't. "The horse next to him swerved way over at the start. Pinched him back." The horses thundered by them, the shimmering dapple gray easy to find in the field. He was second to last of 14.

"No position," Randy muttered. "He's not a come-from-behind horse." He was paralyzed, wanting to look away and unable to.

The horses were harder to see on the backside, but the gray still stood out among the bays and the chestnuts. He was as tangled up as Miami in rush hour. The jockey was trying to drop back and get to the outside, sacrificing the shorter way around next to the rail to get out of the traffic. Every time he tried it, though, he was shut off by one horse or another. Meanwhile, the favorite moved to the lead and began to draw away.

The horses rounded the far turn. Silver Lining was still pinned on the rail, in fifth, behind a wall of horses with the favorite already entering the homestretch. Then, as the horse directly in front of him came off the turn into the straight, he failed to change leads and ran wide, swinging out away from the rail. Silver Lining saw the gap start to open even before his jockey did, and he lunged, shooting through the hole like a gray javelin, brushing the rail on one side and the horse on the other as the jockey on the other horse tried to straighten him out and bring him back to the rail. There were harsh words and harsher hoofbeats for a moment of close quarters, and then Silver Lining was clear.

Ahead, 10 lengths out in front, the favorite was racing down the stretch. Silver Lining stretched out, literally dropping closer to the ground in the effort of his charge. He was closing the gap like an express train, but the finish line loomed ahead. With 100 yards to go, Randy thought he was beaten. With 50 yards to go, he suddenly wasn't sure, and in the last 5 yards, the gray caught the chestnut, and they hit the wire together.

Randy literally almost fell down. Calleigh and Horatio both caught him. Lisa turned to face them. "I think he got there."

Randy nodded. "I believe he did." All eyes were on the photo finish light. The horses came back, and Randy wrenched his eyes to his horse. Ramon stepped out to meet him on the track. Silver Lining's head was up, his neck arched proudly. The horse thought he had won. Surely they couldn't have two consecutive dead heats. An instant later, the placing lights lit up. Silver Lining first, by a nose. Then, as the group made their way down from the box to the track, another groan ran through the crowd. A new light had lit up on the board. Objection.

"No," said Randy in a soft, futile protest.

"One of the jockeys claimed foul?" Calleigh asked.

"Right." Lisa shook her head. "That move at the top of the stretch, I'll bet. He made contact there. The other horse was running out, though, and his rider jerked him back. I'd say it's his fault as much as ours, but I'm not a steward."

Ramon led the steaming gray in circles on the track. The jockey had slipped off and gone to a telephone at the side, a direct line to the stewards. He gestured with his hands as he talked, passionately presenting his case, although the stewards couldn't see him. Finally, he hung the phone up and came back over to the horse.

"Top of the stretch?" Randy asked.

"Right." The jockey kicked the dirt in frustration. "I counted at least five times during that race when we were shut off. Then, we get one break, and it goes wrong. We did brush there, but I wouldn't call it interference. He broke his horse's momentum more than I did."

"Why don't you claim foul for the other incidents?" Calleigh asked.

"We finished first," Randy told her. "You can't claim foul against someone you beat."

The horse circled patiently, his ears still up. The objection meant nothing to him. In his eyes, he had the victory, stewards or not. Then, a roar went up from the crowd as the objection sign went dark. The numbers in the order of finish stayed the same, and then the final light blinked on. Official.

Randy gave the jockey a leg back up on the horse, then lagged behind as the group headed to the winner's circle. Horatio glanced back at him questioningly, and he pulled out his cell phone and pointed to it. "I'm going to call Mom. Be there in a second."

"She already knows, I'll bet," Calleigh said. "She's probably watching it on TV."

"They need to share it, though," Horatio replied. "Until then, it's not Six Perfections." They smiled at each other.

In the winner's circle, Ramon steadied the horse as the blanket of flowers was folded over his neck. Thinking of his family, the groom spoke too softly for anyone else to hear. "Gracias, amigo." Silver Lining dipped his head and bumped him with his nose. The horse had heard. To Ramon, that was all that mattered.

Randy joined them now, and the winner's circle photo was taken. Afterwards, the jockey slid off, the flowers were removed, and the horse was unsaddled. Rosalind stretched her hands out, and Ramon caught the movement. He lead the horse over to her on the way out of the winner's circle, carefully holding him still as she patted the gray neck. Finally, he pulled away with a dark smile of gratitude to Horatio. Horatio and Calleigh looked back toward the trophy presentation, where Randy was accepting on behalf of Mr. Silverman, but Rosalind, held against Horatio's shoulder, looked behind him to the slowly-retreating forms of Silver Lining and Ramon.

"Horse!" she said distinctly. Her parents jumped and turned around, and Rosalind spun with them, stretching her hands out, trying to grasp the dream before it slipped through her chubby fingers. "Horse!"

Horatio and Calleigh burst out laughing.

(H/C)

Next on CSI Miami: Fearful Symmetry – "The Caine Mutiny." Police officers are being abducted and slowly tortured to death while the killer sends taunting progress reports on their deaths daily to the investigators. With pressure mounting from all sides and time running out for another friend, how far will Horatio go to solve this case?


End file.
